Full Circle
by J0
Summary: STORY COMPLETE. 39 & 40 New. Sequel to I PROMISE-30 yrs after Steve stopped his wedding to let his bride marry her true love, her daughter waltzes into his office looking for a job. What havoc will she create?
1. I Promise

Disclaimer: This is a work of fan-fiction, written and meant to be read strictly for enjoyment. The main characters of Mark, Steve, Amanda, and Jesse, as well as others (Ron, Cheryl, CJ, Dion) from the series Diagnosis Murder, are property of CBS/Viacom .  
  
Song lyrics copyright 2001 by Trisha Yearwood.  
  
Steve's conversation with Chief Masters is paraphrased from the episode Retribution (Part II).  
  
Other disclaimers will appear in this space in the chapters where they apply.  
  
Thanks to everyone who gave such a warm welcome to I PROMISE. It was my first effort at fan fiction, and you have encouraged me to do more.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
(Chapter one. Thirty years ago…)  
  
The wedding march started, and May Stephens stood up. Half a beat later, the whole congregation followed suit. Liv came toward him on Jud's arm. She was positively radiant, a beauty for the ages. As she came closer, Steve could see her lovely face smiling softly through the gossamer veil, her eyes aglow with lovelight. Her hair cascaded around her face in wild, unruly curls. It was almost a living thing. True to her word, she had honored his request not to hide her freckles behind makeup. She wore pale lipstick, eye shadow, and mascara, but nothing else covered her flawless skin. Her green-and-gold eyes looked at him with so much love it made him tremble to the core. Such love was a gift, he knew; and he was determined to do everything he could to deserve it.  
  
Steve felt a lump rise in his throat. She was stunning, and she was his.  
  
"Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…" The minister's opening remarks and welcome were drowned out by the sound of Steve's own pulse pounding in his ears. All Steve knew was he was looking at the most beautiful, wonderful, loving woman he'd ever known, and he was about to marry her, and he wasn't sure he was doing the right thing.  
  
"Therefore if any man can show any just cause, why they may not be joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."  
  
To his own absolute horror, and to gasps of shock and surprise from the whole congregation, Steve heard himself say, "Wait!"  
  
"Steve?"  
  
Turning to Liv, he said, "I need to talk to you, outside, now." He gently took her by the arm, turned her around, and nudged her down the aisle.  
  
Keith was seated in his wheelchair at the back of the sanctuary. When Steve got to him, without even asking, he unlocked the brakes of the wheelchair, turned him around, and wheeled him out behind Liv, saying, "I need to talk to you, too."  
  
As he exited the church with Keith, Liv whirled on him, green-gold eyes snapping fire.  
  
"Steven Michael Sloan, what the hell is going on?"  
  
He locked the brakes on the wheelchair and stepped aside so he could face both Liv and Keith.  
  
"I heard you two talking last night, Liv."  
  
Suddenly the fire was gone. "Oh."  
  
Keith snapped, "How much did you hear?"  
  
"Enough to know I need to ask some questions before I go through with this." Turning to Liv, he said, "You never really answered his question last night. Do you love me more than him?"  
  
"Steve, please," Liv wept.  
  
He shook his head and said softly, "I need to know, Liv."  
  
Keith offered her his handkerchief, and she dabbed at her eyes.  
  
"It's not that easy, Steve. For twelve years, all I wanted was to come home to him. Then I met you, and you filled up the aching emptiness inside me. I was broken…damaged. I was afraid to care. You taught me how to love again. You taught me how to love you, Steve."  
  
Gently, he urged her, "Answer the question, Liv. Who do you love more?"  
  
"I don't know," she wailed.  
  
After some thought, Steve changed the question.  
  
"All things being equal, who would you rather marry?"  
  
She shrugged.  
  
She always shrugged when she didn't want to say what was on her mind.  
  
Steve knew what he had to do. Subtle as it was, he knew that shrug was the sign he'd asked for earlier in the day.  
  
Stepping close to her, he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up so she had to look at him.  
  
"If this is what you really want, I'll marry you, Liv. But I *don't* want you to marry me because I treat you well, or even because we'll be happy together. I want to be the love of your life."  
  
Tears were streaming down his face and hers as Keith watched in total consternation.  
  
"I deserve to be the center of someone's universe, Liv, and I will not settle for less than that. You deserve to be with the man God made for you, and right now, I'm not sure that's me."  
  
"Oh, Steve…"  
  
"I don't want to be just another promise kept," he said in a slightly bitter tone.  
  
"You're much more than that, Steve."  
  
"Maybe, Liv, but can you stand here, in front of him," he gestured to Keith, "and honestly say you love me more than any man in the world?"  
  
She said nothing. She didn't even move.  
  
"Think about the people in the church. There must be five hundred people here, for you, Liv. I have barely more than a dozen guests, the rest are all here for *you*. This is your world, darling. You brought these people together. You *keep* them together. I don't belong here, and I can't take you away from them unless you want to be with me more than anything else in the world."  
  
"I do love you, Steve," she said. Lowering her eyes, she added, "And I made you a promise."  
  
Steve rubbed her shoulders and sighed. "I love you, too, Liv, and I want you; but more than anything, I want you to follow your heart. I'm releasing you from that promise. Do what you want. Do what will make you happiest."  
  
Turning to Keith, he said, "You have five minutes. When I come back, if she still wants to marry me, I will spend the rest of my life trying to make her forget you."  
  
Steve walked away stiffly. The cold February wind cut right through the thin jacket of his tuxedo. As he rounded the corner of the church, he stopped, trembling, and prayed.  
  
"Dear God, let this be the right thing, and if she chooses him, let there still be someone out there for me."  
  
He waited at least five minutes before he went back to Liv and Keith.  
  
Looking hopefully at Liv, he said, "Well?"  
  
"I love you, Steve, and I'm so, so sorry, but you're right. You deserve to be the love of some woman's life, and one day you will find her. I promise. But I'm not that woman, and as much as I love you, it will never be enough, because…God always has had someone else in mind for me."  
  
She studied her engagement ring for a moment before taking it off and handing it to him.  
  
He shook his head. "Keep it, it was made for you."  
  
"Steve, I can't. This ring implies a promise, and my conscience will not let me keep one and not the other."  
  
Reluctantly, he accepted the ring. "What should I do with it?"  
  
She shrugged. "Keep it, sell it, throw it into the ocean for all I care. It's just metal and stones and shells. Everything it stands for is in our hearts forever."  
  
Suddenly he got down on one knee and asked, "Make me a new promise to replace the old one?"  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Promise me that you will live joyfully, laugh often, love passionately, cling to your happiness, and let your sorrows go. Promise to think of me often and fondly, and when you do, know that I am happy for you. Know that you have shown me how to have faith. Know that I will be ok."  
  
"Oh, Steve," she nodded. "I promise."  
  
Keith eyed him warily, and asked, "Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Because I love her."  
  
"You could have had her, beach bum. Why let her go?"  
  
"Because I love her that much."  
  
Keith nodded, accepting the explanation, and said, "You're a better man than I am, Steve."  
  
Steve broke into a grin. Then he started to laugh.  
  
"What's so funny," Keith wanted to know.  
  
"Invite me back for your silver wedding anniversary, and I'll explain."  
  
This time the wedding went off without a hitch. The bewildered congregation readily accepted the strange turn of events when Steve gave away the bride and offered a few words of explanation.  
  
"I love Olivia more than any woman I have ever met," he said, "but she and Keith were made for each other. I am merely an interloper, and it would not be fair for me to come between them. I am pleased and proud to be a part of this special day. I wish them both much happiness in the years to come."  
  
As they filtered out of the church, Steve's family and friends gravitated toward him. He was profoundly grateful for the support. His dad put an arm around him and said, "What do you want to do, son?"  
  
Still in a daze, sheltered from the pain and loss by the shock of what had happened, he said, "I think we ought to go to the reception, Dad. We should show Liv how happy we are for her."  
  
"You sure you're up for that," Jack asked.  
  
"Uh, yeah, I'll be ok. Just, stick close, ok guys?"  
  
Of course, everyone agreed to 'stick close.'  
  
Steve ate very little at the reception. The food was good, but he had no stomach for it. He watched dispassionately as Liv and Keith had their first dance as man and wife. He sat in his chair and held her hands as she danced around him. A while later, Jud danced with her. At some point, they brought around slices of wedding cake, and Steve tried just a bite. He'd heard it was bad luck if every guest didn't have at least a little bit of cake.  
  
As the dancing started again, he went to the DJ and requested a song.  
  
"I'm not sure she'll want to dance with me. If she doesn't, play something else, ok?"  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
If I had known how this would end,  
  
If I had read the last page first,  
  
If I had had the strength to walk away,  
  
If I had known how this would hurt.  
  
I would have loved you anyway…  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Steve and Liv shared one, last, bittersweet dance, never saying a word. They alternately held each other close and stood apart to stare into one another's eyes. The look they shared spoke volumes.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Had I known my heart would break,  
  
I'd have loved you anyway.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
As the song wound down, Steve swallowed hard and said, "I've got to go now. I can't stay any longer. Be happy and live a good life. You might not hear from me for a long time, Liv. It hurts too much."  
  
She gently caressed his face, wiping his tears away, still heedless of her own.  
  
"Steven Michael Sloan, I will always think of you fondly and treasure the memories of what we had, but I will always love you most for what you have given me today by letting me go."  
  
He kissed her hand and walked away without another word. Halfway out of the room, he heard her call his name.  
  
"Steve!"  
  
He froze, and she walked to him. As she came to stand before him, he looked away, closing his eyes and turning his head.  
  
"Please, Liv, I can't," he nearly sobbed.  
  
"I'll keep my promise," she said softly, and stepped aside to let him escape.  
  
  
  
  
  
"I'll get the mail, Dad. You open up the house and turn everything back on, ok?"  
  
"All right, son."  
  
Steve got the mail and let himself in by the downstairs door to his apartment.  
  
After the wedding and the reception, it had finally hit Steve what he had done. Liv had sent word that he and his guests could stay at her house until they needed to leave for the airport. She and Keith had found other accommodations. While CJ and Dion slept and the rest of his friends and family sat up in the living room worrying, Jack, Jesse, and Amanda sat through that first night with him in the rumpus room while he got quietly loaded on 'cheap' wine from the green racks in the wine cellar. About five in the morning, they finally hauled him up the stairs and poured him into the bed. As much as it hurt, and as drunk as he was, he was still certain he had done the right thing, but it had been terribly difficult to accept.  
  
He spent most of the next day hung over, resting in bed or throwing up in the master bath. One time, when Jesse came to check on him, he found Steve slumped on the floor in front of the toilet, vomiting and laughing. Thinking Steve had finally snapped, Jess was about to go get Mark when Steve grabbed him by the wrist and said, "No. I was just thinking, this is *exactly* how things got started with Liv. It seems I've come full circle. I'm ok, Jess, I just found it amusing."  
  
A few minutes later, Mark and Jack found the two of them, still in the bathroom, laughing and reminiscing about the Christmas party and other amusing moments they had shared with Liv. Suddenly, Steve wiped away tears of laughter and said in a desolate voice, "Let's go home, Dad."  
  
Knowing Steve needed time to adjust before he went back to work, Mark had rented a car at the airport and he and Steve had driven back home, stopping where they felt like it, and even seeing some of the sights in various states they hadn't visited before. They'd stopped and visited Jack on the way, and spent a day skiing.  
  
Now they were home.  
  
As Steve shuffled through the mail, he separated his from his dad's and threw away the junk. Suddenly, he saw a postcard that made him freeze. In the top left corner of the picture were the words, 'We are…' and in the bottom left, he read, '…Penn State.' He stared at the picture, an aerial view of the campus with the stadium overflowing on a game day, for several minutes before he dared turn it over and read it.  
  
Olivia's handwriting was remarkably clear for a doctor's.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
My darling Steve,  
  
I am so glad you could be with me today. Some  
  
of my happiest memories are of this place. I hope  
  
to make others with you. I feel blessed that one  
  
of the best parts of my life is with me now as I  
  
revisit the other.  
  
I'll love you forever.  
  
Liv  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
He sighed and felt sad for a minute as he chewed his lower lip, trying to decide what to do with the postcard. Making a decision, he got up, found an old shoebox, and put in it the post card, a tattered teddy bear, the letter she'd written him when she disappeared for a week in the mountains, his boutonniere from the wedding (which no one knew he'd kept), and a few other items she'd left around his apartment. Then he put the box on a shelf in his closet, promising himself that he'd decide later what to do about it.  
  
He hurriedly went through the rest of the mail, and bounding up the steps to his dad's part of the house, he nearly ran over Mark as he was headed down to check on him.  
  
"Sorry about that, Dad."  
  
"It's ok, Steve. You were down there so long I was starting to get worried."  
  
"Oh. I, uh…I got a postcard from Liv. It was very sweet. She sent it to me the day we visited Penn State."  
  
"I see."  
  
Steve got a glass and drew himself a drink of water from the faucet. Then he went out on the deck. After a few minutes, Mark joined him.  
  
"You ok, son?"  
  
"Yeah, dad. Better every day."  
  
Steve was staring out at the waves, but Mark could tell he was not really seeing them.  
  
"Want to talk?"  
  
Steve was silent a moment longer, then he told his dad about the day he'd discussed his vision of the future with Olivia.  
  
"It was really nothing special, Dad. I just saw us all having a picnic, Jesse and Susan, Amanda and somebody. CJ and Dion were grown. You were there, and there was this redheaded girl walking the beach with a young man. She was your granddaughter. They came over to us and announced their engagement. Then I saw their wedding."  
  
"The girl was your daughter with Olivia." It was not a question.  
  
Closing his eyes, Steve nodded.  
  
"What do you see out there now?"  
  
A slow smile spread across Steve's face.  
  
"Pretty much the same thing. Your granddaughter's still there, but I'm not sure what she looks like anymore; and there's still someone beside me, Dad. I'm not alone. Olivia promised me I'd find *her* someday, and I do believe I will."  
  
Patting his son's back, Mark said, "I'm glad, son. What do you say we go to Antonio's for dinner?"  
  
"Sounds good to me, Dad."  
  
Mark went inside to freshen up a bit before going out, but Steve stayed on the deck, looking out at the ocean.  
  
Closing his eyes, he conjured again his image of the future.  
  
Where the dunes leveled off above the high tide line, was an old man with snowy white hair sitting in a folding chair, a demolished picnic spread out on the blanket at his feet. A group of young people played in the surf, a young woman and her escort, two handsome young black men and their dates, a blonde kid who was considerably younger than the rest. Three couples sat on the edges of the blanket, enjoying one another's company and chattering with the old man. A tall, very elegant black woman sat at the end of the blanket, and a man, obviously her husband put his arm around her. To the old man's left was a small blond guy, just starting to go gray, who was teasing an attractive blonde woman. On the old man's right, was a big guy who looked a lot like the old man. His hair was getting pretty gray, and he was stretched out full length on the blanket. His head rested in a woman's lap.  
  
For one moment, the unknown woman looked directly at Steve and her features resolved into a recognizable face. Smiling, he said, "Don't worry. Whoever you are, wherever you are, you are the love of my life. You were made for me."  
  
Her features blurred and came into focus again briefly.  
  
"I will find you. I promise." 


	2. One Hell of a Thirty Years

(Chapter 2.  Steve's office.  February 14, 2033)

Deputy Chief Steve Sloan massaged his stiff neck and groaned.  Looking at Commander Cheryl Banks, his second in command, he suggested, "Let's break for lunch.  The next candidate isn't due for another hour and a half."

The still attractive black woman nodded, smiled, and said, "Sounds like a plan."

"Good.  How about BBQ for lunch?"

"Steve, if we keep going to Bob's for lunch, Lauren's going to think you don't trust her.  Give the kid room to work.  She'll do you and her dad proud.  Besides, you need to watch your diet, Steven, CJ, and Maribeth are all worried about you."

"Yeah, I suppose.  A man my age has to watch his cholesterol and his sodium and his blood pressure and…"

"Give me a break, Steve.  A man your age?  With all the medical advances of the past thirty years, 'a man your age' can look forward to another twenty or thirty really good years . . ._ if _ he takes care of himself."

Steve grumped and groused a bit, but finally conceded.  The stress of the past couple of years had really been wearing on him, and he'd had more than his share of run-of-the mill colds and flu.  He was nearly finished rebuilding his bureau, now, though, and then he and Maribeth were going to take a long-needed and much-deserved extended vacation.

"Ok, ok," he said.  "Get some take-out from the place across the street, something _healthy_, if you must.  I have to handle some paperwork and make sure Maribeth's Valentine's Day gift arrived, otherwise, the press will have another lovely little scandal to dig into."

At Cheryl's quizzical look, he grinned and said, "Deputy Chief Sloan Murdered by Enraged Wife."

With a laugh, Cheryl supplemented the headline with a lead.  "Deputy Chief of Police in charge of the Valley Bureau, Steve Sloan, was gunned down today at the entrance to his Malibu beach house as he returned home from work.  His wife, Maribeth, told reporters, 'After my birthday and our anniversary, forgetting Valentine's Day was just too much.'"

"Ok, ok, get outta here," Steve laughed, throwing a wadded up scrap of paper at her.  "I'm hungry and I have work to do."

Cheryl dodged the shot neatly, scooped it up, and deposited it in the recycle bin on the way out of the office.

First, Steve paged his civilian assistant, Leigh Ann, and had her call Captain Cioffi to let him know he would be needed in an hour.  Over the past year and a half, Steve had personally hired or promoted 69 new officers of the rank of lieutenant or above.  Cioffi needed two new lieutenants, and then it would be over, time for that vacation.  Ordinarily, he wouldn't have been so involved in the hiring and promotion of personnel, but given the scandals that had started a couple years ago, he decided he needed to know more about the people working for him.  His chain of command was held together by trust and mutual respect, and when the Chief had transferred out almost half his people to fill spots vacated by the arrests and suspensions, those mystical qualities were lost.  Now, faced with rebuilding his bureau using strangers and officers he'd never served with, he chose to meet each of them personally before approving their final transfer in.

Next, he called the florist, the jeweler, and Antonio's, and made sure everything was ready for the evening he had planned for Maribeth.  It was their thirtieth Valentine's Day together.  Ever since their first one, when she'd accidentally found out about Liv and nearly divorced him, he'd gone out of the way to make it special.  It had taken her some time to finally realize that he meant it when he said she was the only one he wanted, but now she enjoyed the attention almost as much as he enjoyed showering it upon her.

He sat back and sighed.  Ah, Liv…  He'd never spoken to her again after her wedding to Keith Stephens.  At first, it had been too painful to even consider picking up the phone.  Then he had met Maribeth, and he knew calling Liv would have been simply wrong, unfaithful, maybe.  When Steven was born his marriage had solidified, and he knew it would be safe to make that call, but by then there was no point.  His life had gone on without Liv, and he was sure hers had continued without him as well.  He still thought of her often and fondly, but he hadn't once felt that old, aching need in the 30 years he'd known his wife.

It had been one hell of a thirty years, at times amazing, other times, arduous.

Maribeth was his first miracle.  He'd literally fallen into her lap when he slipped on an hors d'oeuvre someone had dropped at the same charity dinner where he'd met Liv just the year before.  They'd stepped out to the lobby unnoticed and talked away the evening as if they had always known each other.  Steve couldn't help but notice that Liv's fichus had finally been replaced.  He was at first terrified to find out that Maribeth was Liv's replacement, but he was so drawn to her that he couldn't help himself.  They were married a year and a week later, on the beach at sunset, with Jesse as his best man and Amanda as the matron of honor.

His precious son was the next miracle, born just nine and a half months after the wedding.  Maribeth had been forty when he was conceived, and while that was no longer considered too old to have a baby, there were concerns about both mother and child.  Steven Mark Sloan, ten pounds, eleven ounces and twenty-three inches long, was a big, fat, beautiful, healthy baby; and his mother had weathered the ordeal just fine.  His father had fainted dead away.

Steve had been ducking a promotion for years, but when he was offered a captaincy in '05, he'd decided to take it.  With a wife and child to support, he felt it was wise to take a job that put him in the line of fire a little less often.  His family and friends were all delighted.  Little Steven had started to bawl during the ceremony, but as soon as his grandfather Mark started bouncing him on his knee, the youngster had quieted right down.

The grandmother of all earthquakes hit two days after his promotion.  His office was less than ten blocks from the epicenter, and he'd been just arriving at work at the time.  Terrified, frantic that he was completely cut off from his wife and son, his father, and his friends by the wrecked remains of the city, he had spent three exhausting days and three sleepless nights marshalling his troops from atop the debris of his building with nothing but some old radios that wouldn't hold a charge and a battered generator.  He had closed his mind to the thoughts of those who were buried in the rubble beneath his feet and his heart to the fear he felt for his own loved ones, and he had carried on.  

Somehow, even with a third of his personnel unaccounted for, they had managed to maintain order until help arrived from the National Guard.  Finally, an evacuation route was created, and the colonel who had relieved him of duty found him a ride to Community General.  Maribeth had found him sitting in shock on a bench in a Red Cross tent on the lawn in front of the hospital's main building.  She assured him that his father and friends were all fine, and then she wrapped him in a blanket and held him for hours as he collapsed, sobbing, in her arms.  

Twenty-four hours later, he was back at work alongside the men and women under his supervision, picking up the pieces.

By the time the dust had cleared from Mother Nature's demolition of LA, Steve and Maribeth were hoping for another miracle in the form of a baby sister or brother for their son.  They really hadn't planned to ever get pregnant again, and when the news came that Maribeth was indeed expecting, they were overjoyed.  Their joy turned to worry just a few weeks later though, when Maribeth was treating a young migrant worker for a broken arm and noticed a fine pink rash on his face.  He was running a low-grade fever, and had cold symptoms as well.  She had him admitted to an isolation ward until his condition was diagnosed, but it was too late.  She had been exposed to rubella, and because the pregnancy was a surprise, they had no idea if she still had any immunity from her last booster shot.  When she developed the cold-like symptoms and the pink rash, Alex and Jesse had both, as a matter of hospital policy, advised them that there was a high probability that the baby would be born with multiple birth defects.  They also said that some couples in similar circumstances chose to terminate the pregnancy rather than risk having a severely mentally and physically disabled child, but after a lot of prayer and discussion, and with Mark's support, they had decided to go ahead and hope for the best knowing that at their age, they may never have another chance.  

They weren't surprised when Maribeth lost the baby in the middle of her second trimester, but Steve was nearly devastated when she hemorrhaged during the miscarriage and he nearly lost her, too.  In the end, she recovered completely, but for months afterward, the guilt that in his eagerness to be a daddy again he might have pressured her into going on with the pregnancy against her better judgment had eaten away at Steve.  To make matters worse, he had thrown himself into his work and refused to talk about the baby, essentially denying himself and his wife the chance to mourn together.  Being forced to come to terms with her grief alone made Maribeth increasingly frustrated with her husband and her marriage, and finally, one day, after a shouting match over nothing, Maribeth had decided to end her husband's foolishness once and for all, and taking him by the wrist, she had dragged him off to the neonatal intensive care unit.

In sterile gowns and caps for the protection of the infants, Steve and Maribeth had quietly entered the NICU.  She had warned him that he dared not shout at her for fear of disturbing the preemies, and so, he had been forced to listen for a change.  Steve also knew that, because he was neither on staff at Community General nor a visiting parent, his presence here, among these tiny, fragile lives, was only being allowed as a special favor to his wife.  As their confrontation became increasingly emotional, he found he had struggled to hold on to all his pent up feelings for just a little while longer.

"Look at them, Steve," she commanded quietly, and he had, realizing that even the largest could easily fit into the palm of his hand with room to spare.  "They are weak, and they are tiny, and they are sick.  Their lungs and eyes and hearts are underdeveloped.  Some of them will have epilepsy, or cerebral palsy, or mental retardation.  Some of them will only live a year, but some won't last until morning."  She moved over to one of the incubators and read the chart.  "This one has a hole in his heart.  It's too big for us to fix.  He'll be lucky to last the week unless a healthy child dies and the parents donate its organs.  Some of these children will suffer for the rest of their lives, Steve.  Whether it's six hours or sixty years they will never know what it's like to be normal and free from pain."

"Maribeth, why are we here?" Steve asked, his voice thick with emotion.

"Did you know our baby was a little girl?"

Steve tried to answer, but choked on his words.  He shook his head to indicate that he had not known.  He had been with Maribeth during the delivery, but, knowing the child would never draw breath, he had found it hurt too much to ask.

"I went to records the first day I got back to work and checked it out.  She weighed just thirteen ounces."  Tears in her eyes, Maribeth said softly, "Steve, I am a doctor.  I knew that our baby would probably never make it to term.  I was just hoping I could carry her long enough for her to come here.  Don't you see, Steve?  I knew this place was in our little girl's future.  I wanted to have that baby knowing she would be born into a difficult life, maybe to suffer always, and possibly to die a painful, lingering death.  Now you tell me, which one of us is really selfish?"

Steve had crossed the room to take her in his arms, and he had told her, "You're not selfish, sweetheart, and you didn't 'know' any such thing."

"But Steve . . . "

"No, Mar, Jesse and Alex explained it to me, too, remember?  All we _knew_ was that there was a _chance_ the virus would harm the baby.  There was no way to be certain, and no way to tell how severe the problems would be.  We decided together to take the chance because we both just wanted to love another child."  They had stood for a while, then, holding each other, amid the dreadful and hopeful sounds of the preemies fighting for life, finally grieving for the child they had lost.

Once they had managed to talk about their loss, Steve and Maribeth had found an even keel again, and for a little while, life was good.  Alex had married a lovely woman named Marilyn, and they had purchased a house that had survived the quake of '05 not far down the beach from Steve and Maribeth.  Not long after, they had found that Marilyn was a carrier for a severe genetic disorder and there was a dangerously high chance that their children would be born either with the condition or as carriers of it.  Adoption did not work for them.  Three times, they were allowed to foster children, but when the parents refused to sign the necessary papers, the children were taken away.  For a while, everyone was sad for the young couple and worried that their marriage might not last, but eventually Alex and Marilyn had realized they would always be in love, no matter what.  After that, they had turned to raising Newfoundland dogs, spending lots of time with their friends' children, and fixing up their home.

In '07, the money for reconstruction after the big quake had run out.  The news hit the press the day before another shaker hit the city, and people panicked.  The ensuing riots were worse than anything Steve had ever seen, worse than Watts in the 1960's, worse than the Rodney King Verdict of 1992.  It all started two days after the tremor, on Washington Boulevard at the nexus of Southwest, Central, Rampart, and Newton divisions, and worked its way out from there.

When a convenience store owner who'd been waiting two years to rebuild and reopen his store finally got notice that his business was being condemned and was slated to be demolished, the city had offered him fair market value for the building.  It was a piddling amount, nothing compared to what the enterprise had been worth before the quake of '05, and it certainly wouldn't cover the debts he had incurred while waiting for financial assistance to rebuild.  He and a few friends decided to stage a standoff against the city demolition crew, the police were called in, and over a three-day period, nerves got frayed.  One thing led to another, somebody got jumpy, and people died.

As rage and fear spread across the city like an angry, bloody blossom opening up, Steve, like every other captain, had sent in all the personnel he could spare to help contain the violence, but unlike times past, this mob would not be quelled.  Hatred grew epidemic.  Hispanics attacked Blacks attacked Asians attacked Whites attacked Arabs.  Christians fought Jews fought Muslims.  Anyone who couldn't clearly be identified as a member of the group around him was as good as dead.  

Steve watched in horror with the rest of the city as hell itself surged through LA.  All the computer projections suggested the mob would stop before it got to the Valley.  The lack of things to destroy in the sparsely populated area north of Sunset Boulevard was supposed to turn the rioters back in defeat, but somehow, when the insanity turned east and crossed the Hollywood and then the Golden State Freeways, and the mob trashed the Northeast Community Police Station, Steve knew that he would soon be dealing with it himself.  

He called his best people--thirty lieutenants, sergeants, and detectives that he knew personally--and put them on alert.  Each was asked to choose two officers from the lower ranks who could be trusted to handle the pressure.  They were to maintain their regular schedules, but remain prepared to go wherever Steve called them at the drop of a hat.  The rioters tore through Forest Lawn Memorial Park, shattered Glendale and Burbank, and turned back to the west toward North Hollywood.  By this time, rioting had spread so far throughout the city that there was no one left to help the cops in the Valley Bureau.  They knew they were on their own.  In cooperation with other captains and commanders in the Valley Bureau, and with the approval of his own commander and the Deputy Chief, Steve worked to arrange a desperate ploy to stop the urban warfare before it left North Hollywood in tatters and spread to the valley.

Following his instructions and with help from the Highway Patrol and from the Foothill division, Steve's people blocked off the Golden State Freeway at Burbank Junction.  The mob would not be allowed to go any further north.  Under orders radioed from Steve, using water cannons, tear gas, and rubber bullets, they drove the mob west down Victory and Burbank Boulevards.  At the intersection of Vineland Avenue and Victory Boulevard, another wall of cops, this time with backup from Foothill, Devonshire, and Van Nuys, started pushing south toward Oxnard Street, and when Oxnard met Lankershim Boulevard, a third contingent of police, most of them from West Valley and Devonshire, urged the mob southeast, pushing them back upon those rioters who were still heading down Burbank Boulevard and slowing their progress.

It all ended at a 7-Eleven store not a block from the station.  Steve had his people form a semicircle across Burbank Boulevard, and, wearing a helmet and a Kevlar vest and a headset microphone that was hooked in to a hastily rigged PA system, with his heart in his throat, he walked a hundred feet down the street alone to meet the mob.  He could hear them half a mile away.  He knew the rest of the city was on fire.  He knew he was going to die, but he had to try.

He waited for what seemed like forever, watching the mob slowly advance on his position.  Then, when he could see the faces of the people at the front of the crowd, he spoke into his microphone, projecting a calmness and confidence he did not feel.  

"Enough!  Go home.  Stop killing each other."

The mob continued to advance, and Steve stepped back.

"This is no good," he told them.  "If it doesn't stop now, all we'll have left is a mountain of rubble."

He gave ground again.

"The world is watching us.  Show them that we are made of better stuff than hatred, anger, and violence."

Emotion threatened to choke him.  This was _his_ city, dammit.  He had spent his life here, protecting its citizens.  He would not, he _could_ not, allow them to tear apart his home, their home.  He _had_ to stop it.  His people were half a block behind him; the mob was half a block ahead.  He would not turn and run.

Some wiseass at the front of the crowd saw the convenience store and yelled, "Hey, it's a 7-Eleven!  Free Slurpees!  Maybe we can give the cops some donuts!"

Steve backpedaled as fast as he could, but he refused to turn his back on the mob and run.  At the same time, he cut the power to his mike and spoke into his radio, telling his people, "Protect the store.  Do _not_ let them take it.  This stops here and now, or we all die trying."

As a single entity, the semicircle of cops moved in front of the store.  Steve had two of his lieutenants boost him up onto the roof of a car parked on the street.  Those two and two of their subordinates stood on the hood and trunk of the car.

Steve stood on the car flanked by Lieutenants Lorena Martinez and Muti Al-Mannai on his left and Lieutenant Cheryl Banks and Sergeant Li Hong on his right.  He spoke into the microphone again, in a low, level voice, giving each word the weight of a sentence.

"Stop now.  Stop the killing now.  Stop hating now.  This stops today.  It stops here.  It stops now."

"Or what?"

"There is no 'or' anything," Steve said.  _"It.  Stops.  Now."_

"Why should we listen to you?  You probably live in the Valley.  Us in the city got nothin' to go back to.  There ain't no money left.  I been livin' in emergency housing since the quake of '05.  Ain't none of us got anything worth going back to."

The argumentative man and two or three of his companions stepped forward.  The cops behind Steve closed ranks.  Steve took a step forward, and throwing caution to the wind, tore his helmet off with one hand while he undid the Velcro to his vest and cast it aside with the other.  His three lieutenants and the sergeant followed his lead.

"I have a family," he said.  "All of these cops have families.  All of you, all of us, everyone in this city has someone who gives a damn.  *That* is something worth going back to."

A murmur swept through the crowd, and Steve pressed on.  "Hating someone is like burning down your own house to get rid of a rat.  The rat goes away, but there's nothing left worth having.  End this now.  Go home now, while you still have something left worth having."

And so, a hundred cops faced down a mob of thousands.  Someone with a video camera caught the whole scene, and within the hour images of the fair-skinned, blue-eyed police captain, flanked by four other officers, Black, Latina, Arab, and Korean, were being broadcast across the city and around the world.  A few days later, when Dan Rather asked him why he'd chosen those particular officers to stand with him, he'd pleased his superiors immensely with the ingenuous answer, "They're my friends.  I knew I could trust them."

A year later, he was promoted to commander, and three years after that, he became Deputy Chief.  Two years later, his best friend Jesse Travis and his lovely wife Katie Lynne had a beautiful baby girl whom they named Lauren Stephanie.  The middle name was chosen in Steve's honor, and he and Maribeth were asked to be godparents.   

In 2022, a drought of unprecedented proportions coupled with yet another energy crisis cast the city yet again into the darkness of fear and hatred.  All that summer, Los Angelenos lived on the brink of eruption.  Finally, when the violence broke out at a water treatment facility in the West LA division, the National Guard mobilized immediately.  Using what they'd learned in the riots of '07, they quickly quelled the madding crowd.  For three years LA and most of Southern California was under martial law, and Steve took his orders from the National Guard instead of the Chief of Police.

The stress nearly killed him.  In the fall of 2025, he suffered a massive heart attack.  Jesse got him into an experimental program, and using genetically engineered stem cells, the doctors regenerated his own damaged heart tissue.  And the stem cells, those clever, mutable little buggers, took it upon themselves to reproduce and migrate throughout his body and repair scars from injuries he'd received thirty and forty years before.  In many ways, he literally was a new man after the procedure.  He was told it was a miracle, but soon, several other miracles had been reported, and Steve found he was a patient on the leading edge of medical science.  It turned out that he was the one patient in a million for whom the stem cells would actually migrate and go beyond their original expectations, but Steve decided that with the U.S. population hovering around six hundred million, a one in a million chance was not really much of a miracle.  So, he didn't call PAXTV. 

He was back at work within the year, and when the rains finally came again in 2026, he and LA were both born again, a phoenix and its mate rising from the ashes and the rubble of the past.

For four blissful years, Deputy Chief Sloan had had it almost easy.  Yes, he was busy.  Yes, crime was becoming increasingly violent.  Yet, with no natural disasters or major fiascos to set things off, everything seemed much more manageable.  Then in 2030, it all went to hell again overnight.

What pissed Steve off most of all was that he had seen it coming 35 years ago.

He could still remember every word of that conversation with Chief Masters back in '98.

"I'm transferring you out of homicide and reassigning you to my task force on a permanent basis," Masters had told him in the entryway of the beach house after returning his badge and gun.

"I wish you wouldn't, sir."

"I make the assignments, Detective," the Chief had told him sternly.

"Then you can have these back."  Steve stood firm and offered up his badge and gun.

"Why?"

"I've seen you work," Steve had said, thinking of the whole affair that had gotten him shot three times in the chest and stomach, landed his father in jail, framed for killing the mobster who was the prime suspect for ordering the hit, and finally ended up getting Ian Trainor killed by his own brother, Malcom.  All to get Master's man, Ross Cainin in a position to take over the Ganza crime family.

"You're running the department and organized crime now, which makes the lines just a little too blurry for me to live with," he'd told the Chief.

Masters had walked out letting him keep his gun and badge.

"Helloooo, Steeevvve.  Where aaarre youuuu?"

"Huh?  Oh.  Back already?  What's for lunch?"

"A tofu burger with soy cheese and low-sodium mango chutney."

At his look of disgust, she grinned and added, "For me, and a large chef's salad with lime-grilled, free-range chicken breast and honey-mustard dressing for you."

Steve smiled humorlessly and asked, "Could it get any more hyphenated?"

"I could have had it massive-sized."

They ate in silence for a while, then Cheryl asked him, "So, just what thought were you lost in when I walked in here, Steve?"

Steve sighed, rested his chin on his fist, and said, "Did I ever tell you about Chief Masters?"

"The one with the organized crime task force?"

"Yep.  If I had said something back when it all started…"

"…you'd have lost your badge," she interrupted him.

"Maybe."

"Definitely.  You were just a Lieutenant I in '98, Steve.  Masters would have destroyed you and gone on his merry way, and I'd be having lunch with Kincaid now."

Steve shuddered at the thought.  His dad had been drawn into a murder pact by a psychologist who owed money to a loan shark years ago.  The guy had murdered a woman who'd threatened to downsize his dad out of a job, and had expected Mark to return the 'favor.'  When Mark had refused to reciprocate, the shrink had framed him, and Kincaid had been too stupid or too ambitious to see the frame.

"Still, it might have been worth it."

"Do you really think so, Steve?"

"Think about it Cheryl, when this scandal broke three years ago, forty percent of our personnel were tainted.  We narrowly avoided yet another disastrous riot when the picketing at City Hall turned ugly.  City wide, manpower is still down twenty-five percent, and public trust is hovering right at zero.  If I had said something back then…"

"…he'd have ground you into the dust, done what he damned well pleased, and you, Deputy Chief Sloan, would not be here to help this department clean up the mess."  

"But…"

Steve tried to protest, but she interrupted.

"_You_ think about _this_, Chief.  The Valley Bureau was proven clean.  Not just seventy-five or eighty percent clean, but completely _clean_.  NO.  MOB.  INFLUENCE.  WHAT.  SO.  EVER.  That's due to _your_ leadership, _your_ integrity, your _example._  Yeah, it's been a bitch for us to replace half of our personnel over the past eighteen months, but thanks to you, this city had somewhere to turn when it needed experienced people it could trust to fill the positions of those it had to release or incarcerate because of the mess Chief Masters started thirty-five years ago.  I really think you should have accepted the promotion to Chief when the Commissioners offered it to you.  This city needs someone it can trust at the helm now more than ever."

Steve smiled.  His old friend's unwavering support warmed him to the core. 

Waving his hand modestly, he said, "Whatever.  The higher you go, the more political it gets.  I'm just a cop, not a politician.  Now eat up.  Al Cioffi will be here in a few minutes.  If we approve his candidates, the LAPD Valley Bureau will be back to one hundred percent, and I can take my wife on that second honeymoon to Maui."

It had been one hell of a thirty years all right, but he wouldn't change a second of it.


	3. Interview

(Chapter 3. Steve's office. February 14, 2033. Just after lunch.)  
  
Captain Alberto Cioffi arrived promptly at one o'clock.  
  
"How's it going, Al," Steve asked as he shook the man's hand.  
  
"It'll be going a lot better if you let me have these two lieutenants, Chief."  
  
"Tell me about it," Steve commiserated as Al and Cheryl shook. "I've done so many interviews the past year and a half, I feel like I should be getting a separate paycheck from personnel."  
  
They shared a laugh, and at Steve's request Al gave him and Cheryl the complete rundown on the first of his two candidates. Steve was pleased to see that the man didn't need to refer to the folder of documentation he had on her. It was important for a cop to have a good memory for facts. It saved time that might otherwise be lost looking things up repeatedly.  
  
"Emily Morgan Baer, Chief. B-A-E-R."  
  
Something was already niggling at the back of Steve's brain.  
  
"She grew up in Pennsylvania, in some little town I can't pronounce, attended Penn State, had her Master's in Administration of Justice and completed her training at the Allegheny County Police Academy by the time she was twenty one. She's a bona fide genius."  
  
The niggle started tickling.  
  
"She also took some law courses before she decided in her legal ethics course that, as she said, 'The only thing there was to learn about legal ethics is that there aren't any'."  
  
Steve smiled at that. He recalled his own aborted attempt to earn a law degree, and remembered the more confounding aspects of the convoluted ethical code that lawyers were expected to follow.  
  
"She went to work for the Clearfield County Pennsylvania Sheriff's office in 2025 and by 2027 she was a sergeant. She's good at her job, chief, trained in hostage negotiation, investigative techniques, SWAT--she's a sniper, and she even took some basic forensic medicine courses so she would understand better what the ME does."  
  
Grinning at Cheryl, Steve said, "Amanda would love that."  
  
That little niggling tickle was becoming a rather forceful tug. Surely, this time Steve's instincts were wrong. Of all the people in the entire world who might choose to be cops, how could anyone connected with *her* possibly end up in his office?  
  
Cheryl nodded, and Steve gestured for Cioffi to continue.  
  
"You remember in '29 when they had that bio-terrorism espionage mess back east?"  
  
"Right before our own little disaster? Yeah, I remember some of it," Steve said. He remembered the story breaking right around Thanksgiving, but most of the aftermath was lost to him in the swirling chaos of the LAPD-Mob investigations, inquiries, and trials of 2030.  
  
"She ran the investigation. Even when the NSA stepped in, she was still in charge because by then she had done all the legwork for them. It was easier for them to let her run things than it was to have her bring them up to speed."  
  
"Wow." That's all Cheryl could think of to say.  
  
"Yes, ma'am. She's one hell of a woman."  
  
"Really?" Steve asked, and Cioffi blushed.  
  
"That's not what I meant, sir, but yeah, she's a knockout, too."  
  
"Well, Commander," Steve said, looking at Cheryl. "Are we ready to see Captain Cioffi's knockout?"  
  
"I'm ready if you are, sir."  
  
Steve paged his assistant.  
  
"Leigh Ann, could you please send Ms. Baer in now."  
  
There was a pause, then Leigh Ann replied in a puzzled voice, "Chief, there's no Ms. Baer signed in on the book. Wait a second, sir."  
  
"I know I saw her in the waiting room," Cioffi insisted.  
  
The three officers looked at one another in bemusement until Leigh Ann came back on the speaker and said, "Sorry about the confusion, sir. She's on her way."  
  
When a statuesque, freckle-faced, redhead with sparkling green-gold eyes and a wide, mobile mouth entered the office, that ticklish, niggling tug in the back of Steve's brain turned into a massive fist and smashed all coherent thought out the top of his skull. She wore a dark green business suit with a knee-length skirt, and her hair was bound in a neat pile of curls on top of her head. Except for her height--she must have been six feet tall, and with the heels and the hair she looked closer to six four or six five--she looked just like Olivia. Steve muttered some form of greeting and gaped like a fish out of water as she shook first his hand then Cheryl's and finally Cioffi's.  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't mention it before, Captain, but I didn't know until I got the mail this morning. My final decree of divorce just came through. My application was in my married name, but I'm going back to my maiden name as of now. It will take a few weeks for all of the official documentation to come through, but I'm no longer Emily Baer."  
  
"And what is you maiden name, then," Cioffi asked as he opened her file and took out a pen to make the correction.  
  
"Stephens," Steve answered before she could open her mouth.  
  
"You know each other?"  
  
"No, sir," Emily told the Captain. At Cioffi's confused look, she explained, "The chief knows my mother."  
  
Looking at Steve, she said, "I was wondering if you'd make the connection, sir. My parents say hello."  
  
Steve nodded, and remembering his manners, he asked, "How are they?"  
  
"Both of them are doing well, sir, thank you for asking. Mom's been chief of surgery at the county hospital for years now, but she's getting ready to retire. She sick of the administrative aspects of the job. Dad retired from the sheriff's department twenty years ago. Now he runs the custom cabinet and furniture workshop at Strawcutter and Redmond lumber yard. May I tell them you're doing well?"  
  
"As well as can be expected in light of events of the past couple years. Shall we begin?" He gestured her into a seat, amazed at how like her mother she was. He was so stunned at seeing her he could barely follow a single thought all the way to it's end, but like Olivia all those years ago, Emily was able to manipulate the conversation subtly to give him the time he needed to collect himself before he looked like a fool. He guessed she shared the gift with her extraordinary mother and didn't even know how remarkable it was. Nevertheless, he was grateful.  
  
"So, tell us about yourself," Cheryl began.  
  
Emily briefly summed up what Cioffi had told them, and added more information about her accomplishments, interests, and unique talents. One thing that particularly impressed them all was that she was also a self- defense and firing-range instructor.  
  
"Well," Steve said, "It seems you were a big fish in a small pond. Why come to LA?"  
  
Emily smiled. "As you said, sir, the pond was getting rather small. After BioGen, everybody in Western PA knew me. Going undercover was out of the question, which was good because it kept me out of vice…"  
  
Everyone chuckled at the remark.  
  
"…but bad because it limited what I could do for the sheriff's department in other cases. Also, well, my ex works for the sheriff and…I'm sure you remember what a small community it is."  
  
Cheryl looked concerned. "You were afraid you would not be able to maintain a professional relationship?"  
  
"Not exactly, ma'am. We each trusted the other to do the job. Always. That was unquestionable, but it was not a pleasant split. Our friends were starting to take sides, whether we wanted them to or not, and since most of our friends were cops, it put quite a strain on the sheriff's department. Ian and I decided together that it would be best for everyone we worked with if one of us would go elsewhere. His mother lives in Pittsburgh, and he's all she has. My folks have lots of friends and family in the area. So, it only made sense for me to be the one to go."  
  
"Ok," Steve said. "That's why you left home. Why come to LA?"  
  
She shrugged, just like her mother and seemed to weigh her response for a few moments.  
  
"While working the BioGen case, I became one of their victims. About twenty percent of us survived. About two percent actually recovered. I was one of the 'lucky' ones."  
  
"But…" Steve prompted, knowing as soon as he saw the shrug that there was a 'but'.  
  
"But I have found 'recovered' means able to carry on, not back to normal."  
  
"So," Cioffi asked angrily. "You mean to say you have lingering health problems you didn't disclose on your application."  
  
Steve was impressed with the way Emily handled herself when she responded.  
  
"No, sir, absolutely not, sir. It is not a health problem, and it *is* disclosed in my application. I suffer from extreme hypersensitivity to cold. If it drops much below thirty-five degrees, I begin to develop hypothermia, and it is very difficult to reverse. Staying in Western PA was not an option. I'd have died."  
  
"Why not Florida," Steve asked. "You'd be closer to home."  
  
Emily shrugged again, and again appeared to weigh her answer.  
  
"My mom already has a house here. It made the move a lot cheaper and easier."  
  
"And…" Steve nudged, knowing the cost of moving was not an issue and that the shrug meant there was more.  
  
Emily sighed, wondering how the hell the Deputy Chief could read her so well after having just met her minutes ago. She saw his eyes widen minutely in surprise when she looked directly at him and said, "Please understand that this is completely sincere, sir. The only reason I hesitated to tell you was because I was afraid you would think it simple, spineless flattery. I don't flatter anyone, sir. I *always* say exactly what I mean."  
  
Steve smiled. She was just like her mother. They probably drove each other nuts.  
  
"Continue, Ms. Stephens."  
  
"I was four years old sitting in my daddy's lap watching the riots of 2007 when I saw you, sir," she turned to Cheryl, "and you, ma'am, and three other officers take off your gear and face down that mob with just a handful of cops behind you. Daddy whispered into my ear, 'That's Mama and Daddy's friend, Steve. He's a hero, but no matter what you hear, remember that he was a hero long before this ever happened.'"  
  
There was a silence in the room. No one knew what to say. Steve was visibly embarrassed. Emily realized that she hadn't finished her answer, and continued.  
  
"I spent most of 2030 watching the LAPD-Mob trials from a hospital bed while recovering from the BioGen virus. I was impressed with the way the members of the Valley Bureau handled themselves. From the greenest patrolman all the way up through the chain of command, everyone projected integrity, loyalty, pride, and courage."  
  
She paused for thought. "When I heard about how they planned to use Valley Bureau personnel to rebuild the LAPD, I knew I wanted to be a part of it. I never expected to meet you, sir, but you, and those like you," she included Cheryl and Cioffi in her glance, "are the real reason I came to LA."  
  
"You know you'll have to complete some course work on local and state laws and regulations," Steve said.  
  
"I'm almost finished, sir. I moved out here in September--the house was my birthday present--and I started the classes right away. I'm a quick study. I expect to be finished by May."  
  
Steve looked to Cheryl, and she gave the slightest nod. Cioffi eyes begged. Steve knew he'd be a fool to say no. Hell, he didn't want to say no. He liked the kid, and she sounded like a damned fine cop. Standing up, he came round the desk, extended his hand, and shook Emily's.  
  
"Welcome to the LAPD, Lieutenant Stephens. You can report for duty tomorrow. Arrange the time with your CO here."  
  
Emily shot up out of her seat, grinning. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  
  
A few more remarks were made, she was given instructions to speak to Leigh Ann on the way out to take care of her pension, insurance, payroll, and other paperwork, and as the door shut behind her, Steve said to Cioffi, "Ok, Al, who's the poor sod who has to follow that act?"  
  
  
  
  
  
At about five thirty, Steve decided to pack it in for the day. Cioffi got his other lieutenant, even though Bremer was less than impressive. He had twice as much time in as Emily, but had accomplished less that half what she had. Overall, though, he was a good, solid, steady fellow, and one could always hope Lieutenant Stephens would pull him along in her wake and lead him to achieve more.  
  
After the second interview, he'd had a meeting with the other chiefs, some forensic investigators, and the chief ME. Another good thing about his job was that he often got to see his good friend Amanda Bentley-Wagner. She and FBI agent Ron Wagner had finally gotten together a few years after Steve and Maribeth had married, and Ron had officially adopted both her boys. Amanda's oldest son Dion was now a captain in the West Valley Division, and CJ was a vascular surgeon at Community General. His goddaughter Hannah was a microbiologist at UCLA and she often provided her expertise in investigations for the LAPD, no matter how hard her brothers, father, and godfather tried to keep her out of trouble.  
  
After the meeting, Steve had pulled Amanda aside, grinning, and said, "You'll never guess who walked into my office today, looking for a job."  
  
"You're right," she said curtly, "I won't."  
  
He drew back, obviously a little hurt at her abrupt manner.  
  
She softened quickly and apologized.  
  
"I'm sorry, Steve. Dion had something come up, and Charisse had to work, so Ron and I kept the kids. Amber and Reg sleep through the night, now, but Jade was so fussy. I don't know if I slept at all last night."  
  
Steve smiled sympathetically and said, "I'm sorry. I didn't realize."  
  
"That's ok. Tell me, who was it?"  
  
He grinned broadly and told her all about Lieutenant Emily Morgan Stephens and her accomplishments and how much she resembled her mother in looks and manner.  
  
As he finished, Amanda clutched his arm and said, "Omigod, Steve. Omigod. Have you told Mark? Does Jesse know?"  
  
"No, Amanda, not yet." He looked at her seriously, and said, "I know this is rather unfair, but could you keep it to yourself for now? It just occurred to me that I really need to tell Maribeth before I talk to anyone else about it."  
  
"You're right. I'll keep my mouth shut, but, omigod, Steve, this is too wonderful."  
  
"Uh…'Manda?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Any suggestions on how to break the news to Maribeth?"  
  
Amanda cocked an eyebrow in thought and said, "Not right now. Give me a couple days to think and I'll let you know."  
  
"Ok, thanks, 'Manda."  
  
"No problem."  
  
Now Steve was leaving his office. Leigh Ann had gone home a couple hours ago. Steve had arranged for seats for her and her husband at the opera and dinner at a fine restaurant in the city. Now that the hiring was finished, he was also giving her the week off. She had been under as much stress as he had since the scandal had erupted two years ago, and he owed her. 'The fact is,' he mused, 'it's probably been harder on her than on you, Sloan. She's the one who has to keep you in line.'  
  
He was about to lock the door, when a soft voice said, "Please, Chief, may we speak for a moment in private."  
  
Steve gave a half grin. She was nothing if not bold.  
  
He opened the door and let Emily walk in ahead of him.  
  
Wheeling on him as soon as she entered the room, she began to babble, "I know this is a bit presumptuous, and I'm sorry to take up your time when I know you'd really rather be going home, but this has been on my mind all day, and it's really bothering me so I have to ask, does your relationship to my mother have anything to do with my getting this job?"  
  
It took Steve a moment to decode all the verbiage and discover the question. When he finally did, he answered simply.  
  
"No, lieutenant, it had nothing at all to do with your being hired. I didn't even know who you were until you walked into my office. Captain Cioffi made the recommendation. I've never seen your file or even your résumé. You got the job because you're highly qualified."  
  
She looked relieved. "Thank you, sir."  
  
Steve started for the door, but she didn't move.  
  
"Lieutenant?"  
  
"Sir, will it have anything to do with my keeping this job?"  
  
Steve sighed heavily. She was so like her mother, filled with insecurity and self-doubt lurking behind a confident, competent, comfortable facade.  
  
"Think about what you said in the interview, Lieutenant, about why you said you wanted to work here. What do you think?"  
  
She thought a moment and said, "No, sir, I suppose not. I'm sorry, that was a stupid question."  
  
"It's all right, Lieutenant. If we're finished here, I really do need to leave. I have a date with my wife."  
  
"Oh, yes, sir, I'm sorry, sir."  
  
She walked past him as he held the door for her, and she walked with him to the elevator. Together, they took the elevator to the ground floor and left the building. Before they parted ways, Lieutenant Stephens asked one more question.  
  
"Sir? May I tell my mother?"  
  
"Tell her…?"  
  
"You have a date with your wife. I think Mom would be glad to know."  
  
Steve mulled it over. It couldn't hurt.  
  
"Yes, you may. Tell her…her name is Maribeth, and we've been happy for thirty years now. We have a son."  
  
Emily smiled, obviously happy for him.  
  
"Thank you, sir. Oh, and sir?"  
  
Steve sighed. She was a tenacious creature. That was usually good in a cop, but not when your chief just wanted to go home.  
  
"Yes, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Mom said if I ever met you to tell you that she kept her promise. She said you'd know what that means."  
  
Steve smiled. "Yes, I do, Lieutenant. Thank you for telling me. Good night."  
  
As he got into the car, Steve found himself wondering exactly how much the young woman knew about him and her mother. 


	4. All in the Family

(Chapter 4. The beach house, Emily's place, Steve's car. March 1, 2033.)  
  
Ring…Ring…Ring…  
  
It was seven o'clock.  
  
With a groan, Steve rolled over to get the phone, but Maribeth grabbed his arm and said, "Officially, we're still on vacation for one more day. The world will not end if you let the machine get it."  
  
"You've reached the Sloan residence. Please leave a message after the beep." *BEEP*  
  
"Mom, Dad, it's me." Their son sounded nervous.  
  
Steve reached for the phone, but Maribeth again grabbed his arm saying, "Wait and see what's up. If it's not urgent, we'll just call him back later. As long as we're awake in bed…"  
  
Steve nodded, grinning, and listened to his son's message.  
  
"I know it's early. Sorry. I, uh, I spent the night at a, ummm, friend's house, and I'm scheduled to work at nine, but my car battery's dead. I forgot my wallet in my locker, so I don't even have cab fare, and Em…uh…sh…uh, *my friend* has already left for work. I know it's somewhat out of your way, but could one of you give me a lift to the hospital? CJ and Jesse are both out of town at a conference, or I'd ask one of them, but you guys are my last hope. The address is 14783 West Dorothy Street in Brentwood. Like I said, I know it's out of the way."  
  
Steve felt as if someone had just doused him with a bucket of ice water. He knew that address. He'd spent a lot of time there years ago. Just what was going on? And why the hell hadn't he found a time in the past two weeks to tell Maribeth about Emily?  
  
Picking up the phone, he said, "Steven, it's Dad. Yeah, I'll give you a lift. I want to head in to Bob's today anyhow. I'll pick you up at eight fifteen."  
  
"Thanks, Dad," the young man replied brightly. "You're a lifesaver. See you in an hour."  
  
"You're welcome, son. See you then."  
  
Steve hung up and slipped out of bed. After giving his wife a morning kiss, he said, "I'll start coffee. You stay in bed." The quicker he got out of the house, the less chance there was of her realizing something was bothering him.  
  
Maribeth shook her head as she, too, got up, and said, "You take a shower. I'll make coffee and something for breakfast, that way you don't have to wait until you get to Bob's."  
  
Steve grinned at her, trying to hide his uneasiness, and said, "You know, I'm wise to your game, woman. You want to feed me before I go to Bob's so you know I'm eating *healthy*." He made a face. It was easy to slip into their familiar joking routine about his eating habits. They'd had this discussion so often in the years since his heart attack that he knew the lines by heart. "The occasional plate of sausages, pancakes, and fried eggs never hurt anyone."  
  
She chuckled and said, "Neither did the occasional bowl of multigrain cereal with skim milk and fresh fruit, whole wheat toast, and decaffeinated coffee."  
  
"I don't know about that."  
  
"Humor me and I'll get your dad to grill steaks for dinner."  
  
"Deal."  
  
He'd stayed in the shower as long as he dared so that he'd have to gulp down his breakfast without making much small talk in order to meet Steven on time. He usually enjoyed a leisurely breakfast with his wife and father, holding conversation and making plans for the evening, but this morning, he just wanted to get out of the house fast.  
  
He slurped the last of the milk from his bowl, grabbed his coat and briefcase, kissed his wife, and jogged out to the car; calling over his shoulder, "Don't want the kid to be late. Give my love to Dad. I'll call about lunch. Have-a-good-day-Iloveyou." The last words poured from him in a jumble. He was desperate to escape, true, but now, more than ever, they were too important to leave out.  
  
Apparently, Maribeth didn't suspect anything. She just smiled and waved and laughed at him.  
  
  
  
  
  
As Steve tore out of the drive, tires squealing in his rush to get away, a bleary-eyed Mark came upstairs for breakfast.  
  
"Where's Steve going in such a red-hot fury?"  
  
"Morning, Dad," Maribeth said. "Your grandson needed a ride to work, and Steve wanted to stop by Bob's, so he agreed to give the kid a lift. He was running a bit late."  
  
"Oh, I see."  
  
When Steve and Maribeth had gotten married, Mark had given them his floor at the beach house and moved into the downstairs apartment. Of course, they had protested at first, but then when little Steven came along, they had seen the logic of Mark's arguments. As Steven matured into a teenager needing his own space, Mark had moved upstairs to Steven's room for a few years and let the kid have the apartment. When Steven had gone off to college ten years ago, Steve and Maribeth had offered to move back downstairs, but he had refused, saying with a grin, "I've been single for thirty years now. I think I like the idea of living in a bachelor pad."  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"Is Steven seeing someone?"  
  
"Oh, why do you ask?"  
  
"Well, when he called, he stuttered and stammered and said he'd spent the night at a *friend's* house. I swear he almost said 'she' had left for work, and he called this person Em, which would have to be Emily or Emma or something like that."  
  
"Oh, I don't know about that, Maribeth. Could be Emory or Emeril, Emerson, Emmett, Emile, Emanuel, Emilio…"  
  
She knew he was playing her. Her father-in-law might be in his 100's but he still had the sharp mind of a much younger man.  
  
"Dad, you know something, don't you?"  
  
"What? Who? Me? Nooooo."  
  
Maribeth glowered.  
  
Mark smiled. His daughter-in-law was very perceptive, and he enjoyed matching wits with her on a regular basis. Steven had confided in him that he had been living with a woman since Christmas, and she was a cop from back east. He just had to tell someone, but he didn't want to discuss it with or introduce her to his parents until the whole LAPD-Mob scandal had settled and his dad had his bureau back up to full speed. Steven had promised to bring her home as soon as his parents got back from their second honeymoon. He'd already asked Mark about having a cookout the coming weekend.  
  
Mark had agreed to keep his secret. He hadn't met the girl yet, and didn't know much about her, but she certainly seemed to make his grandson happy.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve pulled up to the house and stared. It looked just as it had thirty years ago. Potted marigolds sat on the steps leading up to the porch. An old-fashioned porch swing swayed gently in the slight breeze. Ferns hung from the edge of the porch roof. He wondered how she had cleaned it up after the quakes of '05 and '07. Had she come out here by herself and fixed things up without even bothering to call him? Did Keith come with her? Had she hired someone to take care of it for her? Maybe Meyer Goldstein had handled the details. Why the hell had she never sold it anyhow?  
  
He climbed the steps nervously. Things had changed so little, he half expected her to still be there. He rang the bell and waited. No answer.  
  
He rang again.  
  
The door opened.  
  
"Hey, Pops." His son smiled down at him. Steve was a big man, but his son dwarfed him. Steven was six feet six inches tall and had wavy black hair and sparkling blue eyes. He was the image of his grandfather at that age, magnified. "C'mon in. I'll be just a few more minutes. Didja have breakfast?"  
  
"Yeah, if you can call it that."  
  
Steve noticed the walking stick was still there in the corner of the alcove. The wood had darkened and reddened with age.  
  
"What does that mean," the young man asked as he fixed his tie in the mirror.  
  
Steve watched him, but he was really seeing a petite redhead admiring her great-grandmother's watch and the necklace he'd had made to match it. It was the same mirror.  
  
"Your mother made me breakfast. Something that looked like tree bark with a few nuts and berries thrown in. She added something that passed for milk, and it all turned to mush. Even the coffee was phony."  
  
Steven laughed again, "This from a man who actually *likes* hospital food."  
  
Steve took a seat at the table. In his mind's eye, he could see it set for a Christmas breakfast. He could barely contain the urge to look in the china cabinet and see if the plates and everything were still there.  
  
"I just need to brush my teeth and I'll be ready to go."  
  
"Ok, son, whatever."  
  
Steve wandered around the living room while he waited. God, it was as if nothing had changed. The same overstuffed leather couch, the posters from Europe, and the seed advertisements, the elephants here and there, were all exactly where he remembered them. The place even still smelled of lavender.  
  
Slowly, though, he became aware of some subtle differences. For one thing, there were a lot more family photos around the place. Liv and Keith with a redheaded baby, an action shot of Emily, face contorted with effort, diving after a basketball at the baseline. Steve grinned. He had a hunch she'd made the save and Liv had been proud of her for it. One picture he knew had made both Liv and Keith proud was of Emily graduating from the police academy.  
  
There was a Christmas picture taken in front of the dining room fireplace at Liv's old Victorian house. Emily sat on a chair in the center, bundled in blankets, obviously getting over some illness. He guessed the picture had been taken around the time she had wrapped up the BioGen case. He parents flanked her, each with an arm around her shoulders. Keith looked every one of his sixty-odd years, but Liv? To Steve, it seemed she'd hardly aged a day. Jud and May stood beside Keith and Liv, embracing the younger couple the same way they did their daughter. Kenney and a buxom blonde…Sue Redmond, Steve thought…sat on the floor beside Emily. She had a hand on each of their shoulders.  
  
They appeared to be a very happy family. Steve wondered where Emily's ex- husband was.  
  
"All ready, Dad." Steven smelled faintly of aftershave and mouthwash.  
  
Steve tapped at the Christmas picture, right on the image of Emily.  
  
"Is that your 'friend'?"  
  
Steven sighed and blushed.  
  
"Yeah, Dad. That's her. Her name's Emily."  
  
"She's a beauty. Why haven't you introduced us?" For the moment, he chose not to tell his son they'd already met. He wanted to see what his son would say.  
  
Steven looked at his watch and said, "She's a cop, and was looking to join the LAPD. I was concerned that if she knew who you were, she might get nervous; or worse yet, if she got hired, think I had talked you into giving her the job. Look, Dad, I don't want to be late. Can we continue this in the car?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"She got hired a couple weeks ago," Steven said in answer to another of his dad's questions. "But you and Mom went to Maui right after that, and you both deserved the vacation, so I didn't mention anything right then. I've already talked to Gramps about having her over for a cookout this weekend to meet you."  
  
"I see…Have any of your friends met her?"  
  
The younger Sloan laughed. "Yeah. I met her back in September. She hurt her back moving in. She was so upset, because the furniture was all in place and she only had to uncover it, dust, and vacuum. It used to be her mother's house, and when her mom moved back east, she'd just closed the place up. Never bothered to sell it or anything."  
  
"Ok, and your friends met her how?"  
  
"Oh, sorry, lost track of my story, didn't I? Well, I prescribed some painkillers and muscle relaxants for her back, but they left her so dopey she couldn't drive home. She seemed so sad, I offered her a lift. On the way, she started crying. When I asked her if she needed more pain medicine, she started to bawl and told me how it was her thirtieth birthday and she had gotten hurt and she was all alone so far from home, going through a difficult divorce and looking for work. I just felt so sorry for her, I wanted to make it better."  
  
Steve remembered the feeling all too well.  
  
"So what did you do?"  
  
"I got her settled for a nap, and then I made some calls. Lauren, CJ, and Hannah were the only ones who could make it on such short notice. Dion was on a stakeout, and Charisse had to work. Lauren brought food from Bob's, Hannah picked up flowers, balloons, and a teddy bear, and CJ brought some beer. When she woke up we threw her a surprise birthday party out on the deck."  
  
"I see," Steve smiled, remembering. "Did she enjoy it?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. She was thrilled."  
  
"Sounds like you really like her a lot."  
  
"I do, Dad. She's incredible. I've been staying here since Christmas to have more time with her because she's been busy with local law enforcement classes. She has a wild sense of humor, and she's very sweet." Steven blushed and said shyly, "I really hope you, Mom, and Gramps like her. I…uh…I think she might be the one."  
  
They pulled up to the hospital, and Steve asked, suddenly concerned. "When did you meet again?"  
  
Steven scratched his head and said, "Ummm, mid-September? Yeah, it was a few weeks after the charity dinner. Gramps and I had been following up on the contribution pledges that still hadn't been honored."  
  
"And it was her birthday?"  
  
"Yeah, Dad. Why?" Steven was confused by the questions.  
  
Steve tried to sound casual, "No reason, just trying to make sure I have the story straight. I look forward to seeing her this weekend."  
  
"Ok, Dad," his son replied. "I'll see you then. I'll call and we can plan a time."  
  
"Sure thing, son. Have a good day."  
  
Steven thought it an odd choice of words that his dad had said, 'seeing' her instead of 'meeting' her, and he'd seemed to suddenly get very disturbed at something. He was about to call his mother on the cell phone and ask her if she'd noticed anything odd, but shrugged it off and decided he was picking nits. He'd been worried about his dad since the Mob scandals had hit the papers two years ago, and he was still reading something in to everything Pops said, looking for signs of something wrong. It was proving a hard habit to break, but Steven was trying.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve pulled in to a parking garage a few blocks from the hospital. His heart was pounding and his thoughts were reeling. He dug around for his agenda and flipped it open to the full-year calendar. He didn't even trust himself to remember all the months of the year in order.  
  
Liv and Keith had been married on St. Valentine's Day. He counted on his fingers as he read off the months. February to March, April, May, June, July, August, September… It wasn't nearly enough time.  
  
He and Liv had made love for the first time in December. January, February… He stopped himself. Liv was so short, and Emily was so tall. He didn't remember Keith being that tall. It was enough time.  
  
He knew.  
  
As if from a thousand miles and a million years away, he faintly heard the strains of 'Dueling Banjos.'  
  
What the hell was he going to do now? 


	5. Secrets

(Chapter 5. Steve's office, a warehouse in another part of town, the beach house, Emily's house. March 2, 2033.)  
  
The intercom beeped, and Steve answered.  
  
"Yes, Leigh Ann?"  
  
"FBI Agent Ron Wagner is here to see you, sir."  
  
Steve grinned and said gruffly, "Tell him to go away. I've never liked working with the Fed's."  
  
Steve and Ron were old friends. At first, they hadn't gotten along very well, but they eventually found some common ground between them. It was a good thing, because after some false starts and a few difficulties, Ron and Amanda had eventually found some common ground, too, fallen in love, and gotten married.  
  
He could hear the laughter threatening to spill over as Leigh Ann paged him back. It was an old joke to her.  
  
"He says I'm to tell you if you weren't so yellow, you'd be a man and come out here and say it to his face instead of hiding behind a woman's skirts, Chief."  
  
"Tell the coward if he wants me to say it to his face, all he has to do is come through that door," Steve said as he got up to come around the desk and greet his friend.  
  
The door burst open, and Ron came charging in. Steve could see the horrified face of a junior officer sitting in his waiting room. Clearly, Arturo Cioffi had not caught the tongue-in-cheek tone of the conversation. Ah, well, he'd leave that for Leigh Ann to straighten out. She might as well get to know the kid now. He'd shown remarkable talent for data analysis on his aptitude tests, and was about to be offered a position on Steve's personal staff, but he didn't know that yet. Steve felt just a bit sorry for the kid. He probably thought he was in serious trouble right now.  
  
"Hey, Ron, howya doing," he asked as he shook Ron's hand.  
  
Ron put a finger to his lips and took out a small black box.  
  
"Couldn't be better," he said as he scanned the room with the device and motioned Steve to continue the small talk.  
  
"Glad to hear it," Steve said enthusiastically as he tried hard to keep the puzzlement and concern out of his voice. "I saw Amanda a couple weeks ago. You two had been keeping the grandkids. Have you caught up on your sleep yet?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Ron told him. "Fact is, I don't think we get to see them enough." He nodded and shut the device off. "Room's clean. Sorry about that, but I had to know we could talk. You'll understand why once you hear what I have to say."  
  
"So, tell me, how are you really doing?"  
  
Sighing, Ron took a seat.  
  
"Not so good, Steve. I have a serious problem, and I need your help."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Steve couldn't resist a chance to tease. "What could the Fed's possibly require that only the lowly locals could provide?"  
  
Meeting Steve's gaze straight on, Ron said, "The only cops in LA I know I can trust."  
  
All humor left Steve's eyes. "What's going on?"  
  
"That little cancer you guys thought you cut out a couple years ago appears to be back."  
  
"The mob." Steve wasn't asking. He knew.  
  
Ron nodded. "And it's spreading."  
  
"In the bureau?"  
  
"And the LAPD--still, and the U.S. Marshal's office, too. We also think they have someone informing from the witness protection program. We've lost three key witnesses in the last four months."  
  
"Let me get Cheryl in here."  
  
Ron shook his head. "She already knows, and I don't want to draw too much attention by having us all meet here."  
  
At Steve's questioning look, he explained, "This all started while you and Maribeth were in Maui. Amanda threatened to kill me if I interrupted your vacation. I trust Commander Banks almost as much as I trust you, but there's no way I'm running this operation without bringing you in on it.  
  
"Let me tell you what's going on…"  
  
As Steve and Ron talked, another little drama was playing out in a warehouse across town.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Aughhh!" The tall, lanky redhead threw her stopwatch across the room putting the full force of her body and all her frustration behind it, and the timepiece shattered into a thousand irretrievable pieces. "Too slow, too slow! We're all *dead*! Again!"  
  
"Well, what do you expect?" Her second yelled, getting up in her face. "You screwed up the decoder to slow us down!"  
  
"You should have compensated!"  
  
"How?!"  
  
"Kick the flippin' door in!!!!" She shouted at the top of her lungs and spread her long, well-toned arms wide to emphasize the obviousness of her suggestion. The thin gray tank top she wore stretched tight across her round, firm breasts with the gesture. The other men swallowed hard at the sight, but her second was too angry to notice.  
  
"Oh, yeah, and lose the element of surprise. Smart move."  
  
She rolled her eyes heavenward and pleaded, "Lord, why must I be surrounded by fools and innocents."  
  
Looking at her second in command, she explained slowly and clearly as if he were dense.  
  
"All data entered into the keypad is monitored. When a code is entered, an alert sounds in the security office, and if they haven't been previously notified about a visitor, they send someone to check it out. If everything runs *perfectly* we have only two and a half minutes to get in, get Moretti, and get out. As soon as the decoder shorted out, you should have tossed it, busted in, grabbed him, and hauled your tail *out* of there. You'd already lost your precious 'element of surprise'."  
  
"Then why use the decoder at all," the second asked.  
  
"Because it takes twenty-three seconds to check that there has been no prior notification that Moretti is expecting a visitor, and an additional five seconds to radio the guard on the hall. It only takes three seconds for that guard to step around the corner and blow you full of holes if he hears you busting in."  
  
"Then we *should* try the decoder again."  
  
"Wrong. It takes thirty seconds to reset the decoder, *if* it's working. That puts you two seconds down, and those two seconds are the difference between getting out alive and being sent home in a box. If we blow this, we're dead, and we go down as a footnote in history. The last dirty cops in LA, and the mob goes merrily on its way, taking over the city from the inside, leaving the good cops none the wiser."  
  
She groaned, ran her hands through her copper curls, and said, "My shift starts in thirty minutes. The Chief's back from Maui, so I have to be on time. We meet back here at seven pm, and we'll run it again. And again, until you get it right. If anything blows up, you *better* go for broke, or I'm gonna *shoot* you and find someone else who can actually get the job done."  
  
Her second locked eyes with her in a hard stare and held her gaze for a long time. Eventually, he blinked and nodded. He had to get going, too. He'd been late twice this week, and Captain Bentley-Wagner had got on him about it already. As the redhead stalked off to her sporty green Corvette, the men she had hired stowed their gear.  
  
"Damn, she's hot," said Marino.  
  
"Yeah, but what a bitch," Velasquez countered.  
  
With a smirk, Marino asked, "Hey, Rossi, why d'you let her bust your balls like that?'  
  
In a voice as cold and unemotional as the hiss of a snake, he replied, "Because until we have Moretti, she's our only way to get to him." With a cruel leer, Rossi finished his thought. "And once we've got him, I'm gonna kill her, so it will all be even soon enough."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve stared at Ron, shock and disappointment plain on his face.  
  
"So, Emily's been working on this since she came to LA?"  
  
Ron nodded.  
  
"And no one in the LAPD had a clue?"  
  
"Not a soul."  
  
"And I hired her."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"I have to hand it to her. She's good. I swallowed her story, hook, line, and sinker."  
  
Ron smiled at his friend sympathetically. "That was the plan, pal."  
  
"So when are they moving him, and what do you want me to do?"  
  
"We don't know when we'll need it, but I want you, personally and secretly, to prepare a safe-house. If we do this right, we can flush out the informers in the witness protection program, keep Moretti alive, and use his testimony to tear the Ganza Crime Family Tree out by the roots."  
  
"And what about Emily?"  
  
"You've got to let her do her thing until she grabs Moretti. She's the only one on the team who has any contact with the informant. Until they try to take him out, we've got nothing on anyone."  
  
Steve nodded his understanding.  
  
"Why's Moretti doing this? He's been in the family business what, fifty years? Why now?"  
  
"His kid. Forty-odd years ago, he dated some girl and she had a kid. She knew what Moretti did, and for her it was fun and exciting to hang out with a Mafioso. When the baby was born, she realized it was just plain dangerous. She left him, started using her grandmother's maiden name, and raised the baby on her own in a little house in Van Nuys."  
  
"I don't see where this is going, Ron," Steve said distractedly. He was much more concerned about the complications Emily was going to create for him and his family than he was about a mobster's reasons for going legit.  
  
"Well, Moretti's in his sixties, now, and he wanted to leave a legacy. He never married and never had any more kids, so he tracked down his old girlfriend. She's buried in a little cemetery in Van Nuys. From there, he found the kid, and a grandkid."  
  
"Connect the dots for me, Ron."  
  
"Ok," Ron grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "The girl's grandmother's maiden name was Cioffi. She named the kid Alberto."  
  
Steve snapped to full attention. "As in Captain Alberto Cioffi?"  
  
"Yep. And Al's son is sitting in your outer office right now. From what I hear, he's going to be a helluva cop some day."  
  
Steve nodded in agreement, then shook his head in confusion, and said, "This is just too weird, Ron. Just too weird."  
  
"Tell me about it, but, hey, if my plan works, it will all be good in the end. Then we can kick him back to you to testify on the Donatelli murder, the attempted hit on Cioffi years ago, and, as I understand it, jury tampering in several cases that should have been slam dunks for the illustrious District Attorney's office."  
  
Ron got up and extended his hand.  
  
"I really appreciate this Steve. The way things are right now, I wouldn't trust anyone else to do this. With your help, we can get them all, and this will finally be well and truly over."  
  
"Let's hope so, Ron. I never imagined it could get worse than what we had two years ago. Funny how whenever you think it's as bad as it can get, life can surprise you by getting even worse. I'll get on arranging that safe house right now."  
  
Ron laughed and said, "Ain't it a bitch? See you later."  
  
Steve nodded his agreement. Ron didn't even know the worst of it. He didn't know Steven's connection to Emily, and he sure as hell didn't know about Steve's relationship to her.  
  
It truly was amazing how easily bad things could always get worse.  
  
  
  
  
  
As she turned onto the freeway in her 'Vette, she flipped her cell phone open and placed a call.  
  
"Rossi's going to be a problem, sir. He's fighting me. Questioning orders."  
  
"You have to work with him. It's too late to replace him now. They're moving Moretti within the week."  
  
"That's not good. I don't think we'll be ready."  
  
"You have no choice. You have permission to deal with Rossi as you wish. Just keep him alive long enough to finish the job."  
  
She sighed. She had the distinct impression she was in over her head. Oh, well, too late to back out now.  
  
"Understood, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve ran his hands over his face and groaned. He hadn't been sure what to do about Emily before. He was at a total loss now. There were no good options to begin with, and now that he knew she was involved in a plot to kidnap a protected federal witness, everything had gotten worse.  
  
He'd finally arranged a safe house for Moretti. It wasn't spectacular, but it was as safe as it could be. Then he'd had Leigh Ann call in Cheryl and a few other trusted cops and explained what he could of the situation. None of them had been pleased to know they would be protecting a federal witness because the feds weren't sure who they could trust in their own organization any more.  
  
He ran through his choices again.  
  
He could confront Emily about her relationship with Steven, and ask her to stop seeing him. Unfortunately, if he did that, she'd want to know the reason why, and he just couldn't tell her the truth. He knew in his gut what the situation was, but he had no evidence to support his conclusion. He certainly couldn't tell her, 'I know you're going to kidnap Moretti, and I want to keep my son away from you.'  
  
He could *order* Emily to stop seeing him and refuse to give her a reason, but she might refuse. That could create an ugly situation. He'd be impotent to enforce his order. Giving her extra shifts and a heavier workload in order to keep her too busy to see Steven would not only interfere with Ron's plans, it would also be illegal and could get him charged with harassment.  
  
He could talk to Steven, explain that he knew Emily, and ask him to stop seeing her. He'd want to know the reason, too, but Steve could always tell him it would look bad for his father to have hired his girlfriend or that he didn't want his son to have to struggle with all the worries of loving a cop. Those flimsy arguments might work with the young man, but they were lies, and, because they had had to work very hard for many years to build a good, trusting relationship, Steve couldn't bear to lie to his son. If the excuses didn't work, there was no way he could tell his son the truth.  
  
He could just *demand* that Steven dump Emily, without giving a reason, and ask his son to trust him that he'd understand why later. But that would just alarm Emily, and he couldn't take that risk. She couldn't know that anybody in the department was on to her. Until she got Moretti, she was the only link he and Ron had to the mobsters who'd infiltrated the LAPD and the Witness Protection Program. And Moretti was the only chance they had of cleaning the mob out of the FBI and the Marshall's office.  
  
He could just wait and see what happened at the cookout, but then, after the kidnapping, when all the sordid little details came out, Steven would be hurt just that much worse. And he'd want to know why his dad hadn't told him, why he hadn't protected him. Steve wasn't sure he could face those questions. He wasn't sure he'd have any answer that was good enough.  
  
He wished he could ask his own dad for advice, but he couldn't even begin to consider how to break the news to him.  
  
There was only one thing he knew he could do right now.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sloan residence."  
  
"Hey, sweetheart."  
  
"Steve! What's up lover?"  
  
He sighed deeply. God, this was hard already. What was he going to do tonight?  
  
"Ummm. I need to talk to you about something. Just you. Can you ask dad to cancel the steaks tonight, and, uh, try to, you know, gently let him know we want to be alone this evening?"  
  
"Are you ok, Steve?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine, just…I need to tell you something. Tonight."  
  
"Ok…I'll talk to your dad. You take care."  
  
"I will, sweetheart. I love you."  
  
'Funny', Maribeth thought, 'but that *I love you,* sounded a lot like *I'm scared*.  
  
"I love you, too, Steve."  
  
'Funny, but that sounded a lot like *I'm worried about you,*' thought Steve.  
  
  
  
  
  
While the Chief was occupied in his office and the outer office was empty, Leigh Ann placed a call on her cell phone.  
  
"Agent Wagner was here, sir. He spent a lot of time talking with the Chief."  
  
"About what?"  
  
"I'm not sure, sir, but after Agent Wagner left he spent a lot of time on the phone with a realtor."  
  
"Probably arranging a safe house," her boss said. "Who was the realtor?"  
  
"Joe Gary, sir."  
  
"I know him. Anything else, Leigh Ann?"  
  
"Yes, sir. When he was done with Mr. Gary, he met with Commander Banks, Captains Cioffi and Wagner, Commander Al-Mannai, and Captain Hong."  
  
Leigh Ann heard her boss smile.  
  
"They're definitely arranging a safe house. The LAPD is going to try to protect Moretti. Thank you, Leigh Ann. Keep me posted."  
  
"Yes, sir. You know I will."  
  
  
  
  
  
Maribeth sat on the couch beside her husband, holding his hand.  
  
"And you thought I'd be upset?"  
  
He shrugged. "I guess so."  
  
"Because you loved her mother?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
He heard the smile in her voice though he couldn't bear to look her in the eye.  
  
"Is she a good cop?"  
  
"Very good."  
  
"Then I'm glad she's there. I want you to have the best people available working for you. I want to know they'll keep you safe. From what you said, it sounds like her parents still think very highly of you."  
  
He still did not look up.  
  
"There's more."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"She's…she's dating Steven." He heard an indrawn breath. "It was her house he'd spent the night at. I saw her family pictures while I was waiting for him to finish getting ready. He met her when she hurt her back moving in and went to the ER for treatment."  
  
It wasn't exactly a lie. He had seen the pictures, he just didn't admit to having known before he got there whose house it was.  
  
There was a long pause.  
  
Then, "I see."  
  
Another pause.  
  
"Are they serious?"  
  
Steve nodded. "He thinks so. He's already arranged with dad for a cookout this weekend. He wants to introduce us."  
  
"What do you think?"  
  
He tried several times to answer. He knew he'd have to put a stop to it sometime soon, but he didn't dare tell anyone why. He couldn't discuss Moretti, and he didn't want to mention the rest. Not until he had proof. Another half-truth was the best he could manage.  
  
"I don't know. In a way, I hope they're not. I've seen what it's been like for you, dealing with my job over the years. I don't want him to have to go through that."  
  
They sat in silence for a while. Maribeth finally broke it.  
  
"It is hard, sometimes, Steve, loving a cop. But it's worth it. Don't interfere. Our son is old enough to know what he wants."  
  
Steve nodded slightly then, letting his wife believe he would let matters take their own course.  
  
"Steve, honey, look at me."  
  
She waited a moment, and then growing impatient, she cupped his chin in her hand and made him turn to face her.  
  
"If our son and Emily are that serious, if they make each other happy, then good for them. I hope we can be friendly with her parents, for the sake of the kids if nothing else, but don't worry about me, sweetie. After thirty years of marriage, I can safely say that I know beyond all doubt that you belong to me."  
  
She smiled at him. He had to smile back. His wife had the sweetest smile he had ever seen.  
  
"I don't care if you and Olivia become friends again. I don't even care if you still love her a little. She'll always have a little piece of you, and I can live with that. I can live with that because we have a *life* together. We share something she can never have a part of, and you gave me the one thing you never gave her, the one thing that will always bind us together. You gave me our bright, beautiful, wonderful, loving child."  
  
Steve felt his guts wash with acid.  
  
  
  
  
  
It was late. Her men were getting tired and cranky, she knew, but she also knew she had to keep pushing them. They *had* to be ready when the call came. They were improving, but they still couldn't quite get it right. They would only get one shot. *She* would only get one shot.  
  
"Do it again."  
  
Velasquez and Marino grumbled. Rossi rebelled.  
  
"I've spent ten hours on the job, and five here. I'm going home."  
  
She stepped in front of him.  
  
"I said, do it again."  
  
"Maybe you misunderstood me," Rossi said. "I said, fuck you."  
  
She had never been the type of woman to slap a man, and she was not about to make an exception now. A powerful right jab split his lip and her laid her knuckle open to the bone. A thundering left laid him out cold. Then she went over to the hose they had used earlier to simulate rainy conditions, turned the water on full blast, and sprayed it on his face to bring him around.  
  
"I said, do it again."  
  
Rossi got up, chagrinned, and simply nodded. He dabbed at his bleeding lip with the back of his hand and looked daggers at her, but he said not another word. They continued their practice until midnight.  
  
After the men left, she looked around the warehouse to make sure she was alone. Then she dialed her cell phone.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Do we know when, sir?"  
  
"Not yet. Have you dealt with Rossi?"  
  
"For now, yes, but I have a hunch he's going to stab me in the back."  
  
"Then I suggest you watch your back."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steven was drifting in limbo. Since he'd moved in with Em, he found it hard to sleep properly when she wasn't there with him. In the two weeks since she'd been hired by the LAPD, she'd been out a lot of late nights, and he missed her. The sharp hiss of an indrawn breath pulled him from his restless, not-quite-slumber.  
  
Squinting at the light coming from the open door to the master bath, he saw Em trying to bandage her hand. Looking at the clock, he saw that it was nearly one thirty. He got up, wiped the sleep from his eyes, and walked to her.  
  
"Let me do that."  
  
She looked at him, a bit embarrassed and said, "Sorry. Didn't mean to wake you, love."  
  
"It's all right. I wasn't really sleeping anyway."  
  
He gently removed her clumsy bandage, intending to wash the cut and wrap it neatly for her, but he gasped at what he saw.  
  
"Jesus, Em! What happened?"  
  
"A little trouble on the job, is all."  
  
"My God, honey. You should have gone to the ER and had it stitched up." The knuckle was swollen and bruised, and blood still oozed from the puffy edges of the cut. "Give me a minute to get dressed, and I'll take you in."  
  
"Steven, no. I'm tired. It's been a long day. You've got a suture kit in your bag. Just take care of it here. Please?"  
  
He eyed her carefully, and sighed in surrender.  
  
"Ok, but I'm going to give you some antibiotics and *I want you to take them*. I also want you to come by the hospital on your lunch break tomorrow for me to check this out again, got it?"  
  
Smiling, she said, "Yes, sir."  
  
As he washed and stitched the wound, he knew it had to hurt like hell. The topical anesthetic he'd had in his bag wasn't nearly enough to dull the pain of the needle and suture material being pulled through raw skin. To her credit, the only signs of Em's pain were the occasional deep breath and the tight line of her compressed lips. She didn't flinch once.  
  
He gave her some antibiotic capsules and a few extra bandages.  
  
"Take one capsule every six hours," he told her, "and keep the cut clean and dry. If it gets wet, change the bandage, and *don't* be too proud to ask for help if you need it."  
  
"Understood, sir," she said with another smile.  
  
"You'll see me at lunch tomorrow?"  
  
"Yeah. Promise. Now, let's get to bed."  
  
"Good idea." 


	6. Evidence

(Chapter 6. Emily's office, Amanda's office at CGH. March 3, 2033.)  
  
  
  
Steve walked around in a fog. He hadn't slept well last night, and he was still trying to get back into the swing of things. Maui had been nice. Maui had been wonderful, actually, but coming back to work from his first real vacation in over two years was proving to be harder than he'd expected.  
  
The fact that he didn't yet have any evidence to support his concerns about Emily only made things worse.  
  
Emily.  
  
Emily.  
  
What to do about Emily?  
  
He walked past her office and saw the top of her head as she sat fumbling with a bandage, lost in concentration, trying to get it over a wound on her hand. Now was his chance.  
  
"Need some help?" He asked from the door.  
  
She jumped, startled for a moment, and then seeing who was speaking to her, started to rise. Steve motioned her back into her seat and said, "As you were, Lieutenant."  
  
She sat, looking up at him, gold-green eyes nervous and searching, and said, "Can I help you, Chief?"  
  
She did a good job of playing the innocent, Steve thought as he gave her his most winning smile and said, "No, Lieutenant, I was offering to help you." He invited himself in, since she hadn't done so yet, and shut the door behind him.  
  
Looking at her hand and making a face, he said, "Nasty cut. What happened?"  
  
She blushed faintly and said, "I…uh…I lost my temper, sir."  
  
Nodding at the injury, he asked, "Did that make you feel better?"  
  
She grinned, and said, "Not exactly better, sir, but it was worth it."  
  
Steve remembered all too well. He'd had a temper when he was her age, and he'd often vented in a similar, foolish manner. He'd also felt the same way about the bumps and bruises he'd given himself along the way. He chuckled and, taking the fresh bandage away from her said, "Here, let me help you with that."  
  
She wavered a moment, then extended her hand to him across the desk. She felt awkward, allowing her boss to minister to her in this way.  
  
"What did you hit?" He asked as he applied some antibiotic ointment to the gauze pad of the bandage.  
  
She hesitated, and then admitted, "An idiot."  
  
Steve cocked an eyebrow at her, and she said, "Don't worry, sir. I was not out of line, and it won't come back on the department. I would never do that to you. I would never do that to my colleagues."  
  
Steve pressed his lips together a moment, weighing his response, and then said, "That's good to know, but I know who raised you, and that's even better."  
  
Emily smiled at him. He'd missed that smile for thirty years. It wasn't soft and gentle like her mother's. It wasn't sweet like Maribeth's. It was unique, open and honest, with just a hint of mischief.  
  
Steve gave himself a mental shake and reminded himself that this woman was living a lie. A lot of lies, actually, some of them she might not know about herself.  
  
He gently placed the bandage over the wound and for a moment flashed on the image of himself, fixing a boo-boo for a tearful little redheaded sprite. After he kissed the boo-boo and made it better she ran off to play with her friends.  
  
Why did he have to like her so much? Why did she have to be…who she was? Why did it have to matter to him?  
  
He smoothed the adhesive strips over her skin then stood up and stepped back.  
  
"Did my son stitch it up for you?"  
  
She went white. He tried to ignore how much he hated messing with her like this. He had to get some reaction from her, and he knew no other way.  
  
"I beg your pardon, sir?"  
  
"Emily," he paused a minute. "May I call you Emily?"  
  
She nodded, still speechless.  
  
"A couple days ago, Steven's battery died. He was at a friend's house and called me to give him a ride to work. I helped your mother move into that house, Emily. I saw your family photos there. It's a heck of a coincidence, don't you think?"  
  
She averted her eyes.  
  
"Not according to my mother," she said dryly.  
  
Steve laughed, Emily didn't seem as convinced as Liv always had been that God had a plan for everyone. He sat back down, crossed his legs, and looked at the young woman. Maybe he could straighten her out.  
  
"Sometimes I think she's right, and sometimes I think it's just coincidence. How did you two meet?"  
  
She sat doodling on a legal pad as she talked. Steve noted that she was left-handed. Steve was, too. He knew Liv was right-handed, because she always used to sit at his right during lunch and hold his right hand in her left. It had been as natural for them as breathing. He remembered Keith firing from a right-handed stance, and when he toasted them at the rehearsal dinner, he'd raised the glass in his right hand. Wasn't left- handedness hereditary?  
  
As she doodled and he thought, she repeated almost exactly the same story Steven had told him. When she finished, Steve asked, "When were you going to tell me?"  
  
Apparently, his tone was more accusatory than he meant it to be, because she tossed her pencil on the desk and snapped her head up.  
  
"I don't know, sir."  
  
There was just enough pause, and just enough emphasis to make the 'sir' less than respectful.  
  
"I didn't even make the connection until I saw you in person, sir."  
  
Again with the pause and emphasis. Just like her mom.  
  
"People never look the same on TV, and it had been two years since I'd seen you on the news anyway. When should I have told you, sir? Before or after you hired me? 'By the way, Chief, I've been sleeping with your son for a couple of months now. He's really good in bed'."  
  
She snorted and rose to her feet.  
  
"That would have been a dandy interview, wouldn't it, sir? When you hired me, you told me your relationship with my mother would have nothing to do with my keeping this job. I hope the same holds true for my relationship with your son."  
  
She was about to continue when Steve interrupted.  
  
"Lieutenant!"  
  
"Yes, sir?"  
  
Steve let go a gusty sigh before he went on.  
  
"I am sorry if you thought I was accusing you of something. I didn't mean it to sound that way. I just happen to know my son is planning a cookout this weekend for us to meet you. My wife has never seen your mother, but my dad will be there, and he'll recognize you almost as quickly as I did. That could make for an awkward situation."  
  
She sat down. "I see." She thought a moment, and said, "I was going to tell you soon. Right after the interview was too soon, though. Then you went on vacation. I was busy all day yesterday. I'll tell Steven tonight. Does he know about my mom?"  
  
Steve said, "Not really."  
  
"Oh. Well, I can just tell him she was an old girlfriend of yours and that he should ask you the rest." Looking Steve directly in the eye, she said, "I won't lie to him, sir."  
  
This time there was no hesitation. No emphasis.  
  
"You do that. I've already talked to my wife, and I'm going to talk to my dad soon."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Emily picked up the old bandage and the other litter that was on her desk from redressing her wound. She was about to throw it into the trash beside her desk when Steve stood, pulled a tissue out of the box on her desk, held it open in his hand, and said, "I'll take care of that for you."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"It needs to go in a bio-hazard container. You'd be amazed how fast OSHA gets involved around here."  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry, sir. I should have realized," she said, depositing the materials in his waiting hand.  
  
"Not a problem, Emily." He opened the door and she stood up. As he left, he said, "And keep up the good work, Lieutenant."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
When he was sure no one was looking, he placed the bloody bandage in his pocket. At the end of the hall, he stepped into the stairwell and sprinted up the three flights to his office, moving as quickly as he could without alarming anyone. Of course, it was hard not to alarm anyone when you were Deputy Chief of Police. People always got alarmed around that kind of authority.  
  
Walking through his outer office, he said, "Leigh Ann, reschedule all my appointments, then call Dr. Bentley and tell her I'm on my way to see her. It's urgent."  
  
"Yes, sir. Uh, what's wrong, sir?"  
  
"That's confidential information, Leigh Ann," he snapped over his shoulder as he thrust his arms into his coat and headed out the door.  
  
"Er…yes, sir. Sorry, sir."  
  
She did as requested, telling Amanda that she had no idea what was on Steve's mind. Then she got out her cell phone and made a call of her own.  
  
"I don't know what's going on, sir, but it's big. He's on his way to Community General now to talk to Dr. Bentley. I haven't seen him this agitated since the LAPD-Mob story broke two years ago."  
  
"You've done well, Leigh Ann. Thank you."  
  
"Yes, sir. Please let me know if there's anything else I can do, sir."  
  
"I will, Leigh Ann."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve walked into the Coroner's Office at Community General Hospital. Amanda still worked in the old Path Lab, because, she said, it felt like home, but now she had access to all kinds of technology provided by the city. She also had a staff of thirty working for her. After the quake in '05, the city had helped CGH rebuild with the stipulation that the new Coroner's Office be located there, and not in the basement. Ironically, during the quake, those who dealt with the dead had perished in greater proportions than the general population because of where they worked. Many of them had died lingering deaths in the basements of collapsed city buildings.  
  
Amanda had worked many double shifts in the next several years, helping the ME's office cope while they got their staff up to full strength again. Her dedication and meticulous work had paid off. She rose through the ranks of the ME's office, and in 2020, she had been made Chief ME for the City of Los Angeles. One of her first actions was to make sure the agreement between the city and CGH continued in perpetuity.  
  
"Steve, what's wrong," Amanda asked, concerned as he burst into her office.  
  
Ignoring her, he looked at Jesse and said, "What are *you* doing here?"  
  
"Easy, big guy," Jesse backed away, hands raised in a 'See? I'm unarmed,' posture.  
  
"I called him," Amanda said. "Leigh Ann said it was urgent and that you seemed very upset. I thought you might want him to be here too."  
  
Jesse edged toward the door, saying, "But I can go, if you'd rather, Steve."  
  
Oh, he'd rather, all right, but his best friend and business partner looked as if his feelings were hurt. After all these years, Jesse still managed that sad little boy look, and it tore at Steve's heart. Sighing, he said, "You can stay, Jess. I'll have to tell you soon enough anyway."  
  
Eyeing Amanda suspiciously, he said, "You didn't happen to page Steven or CJ, too, did you?"  
  
"No," she said, reaching for the phone, "but if you'd like me to…"  
  
"NO!" Steve tore the handset away from her and slammed it violently back in the cradle.  
  
Amanda and Jesse shared a troubled look. Steve was losing it. Why? They shrugged at one another, and Jesse spoke soothingly.  
  
"Steve, buddy, calm down and tell us what's wrong." He pitched his voice low and spoke in a singsong tone. "Whatever it is, you know we're here to help you."  
  
Steve closed his eyes and breathed deeply for fully half a minute. He was *not* going to go berserk on his friends. In through the nose, out through the mouth, after all these years, he still practiced yoga. It had seen him through many stressful times. Meanwhile, Amanda had closed all the blinds to her office to protect their privacy  
  
When he finally found the calmness he sought, he opened his eyes and said, "Amanda, I need you to do a paternity test."  
  
Taking the bloody bandage out of his pocket, he said, "Here's the child's blood sample."  
  
"Ok. Do you have the parent's, or will I need a court order?"  
  
Steve shook his head and said, "No, the parent is willing."  
  
With that, he took off his jacket and started to roll up his sleeve. 


	7. Fiasco

(Chapter 7. Amanda's office at CGH, other places throughout LA. March 3, 2033.)  
  
Jesse put his hand on Steve's, making him stop in the process of rolling up his shirtsleeve.  
  
"Wanna tell us what the hell is going on, pal?"  
  
Steve narrowed his eyes at Jesse.  
  
"No."  
  
"Steve," Jesse said firmly.  
  
In over thirty years of working with Mark Sloan both in medicine and on police cases, Jesse had perfected that tone almost as well as his sad little boy look. Steve sighed, and continued rolling up his sleeve.  
  
"Just draw some blood and start the test and I will tell you both all about it."  
  
As Amanda moved around the lab setting up for the test, Steve spilled his guts. He told them all about the interview and how he suspected he knew who Emily was even before he met her. He described his shock at meeting her for the first time, and her incredible resemblance in looks and manner to her mother. He reminded them of how short Olivia was, told them about Emily's temper and the fact that she was left-handed. Then he told them about giving Steven a ride to work.  
  
"That's all pretty remarkable, Steve," Jesse conceded, "but I still don't see why you're running this test."  
  
"Aughhh!" Steve yelled, making his friend jump. "Haven't you listened to a thing I've said, Jess?"  
  
"Yeah, Steve, I actually have listened, and it doesn't make any sense."  
  
Amanda was quiet. She knew. She'd done the math almost immediately. She could have told Jesse, but Steve still hadn't really said the words yet. She thought it was important for Steve to say the words, so she remained silent.  
  
He folded his arm to keep the cotton ball in place as Jesse removed the needle, and put his hand to his forehead. Finally, in plain, simple terms he explained the problem.  
  
"Jess, when did we meet Olivia?"  
  
Jesse shrugged as he handed the vial of blood to Amanda, "About thirty years ago, I guess."  
  
"No, Jess, exactly thirty years ago. August fourteenth. I was shot on the twentieth. She and I made love for the first time on December 10th. I was so excited I forgot to use protection. She told me she'd been on the pill long enough for it to be effective, but I think she was wrong."  
  
"Steve, this is all still just coincidence."  
  
"Jess, Liv and Keith were married on Valentine's Day. Emily's birthday, her *thirtieth* birthday, Jess, was in September."  
  
"But Steve, that's only seven months."  
  
Steve remained silent.  
  
"Ohhh, that's *only* seven months."  
  
"I know. That's why…Ithinkshe'smydaughter."  
  
'There,' Steve thought as Jesse bandaged his arm in silence, 'I've finally said it for myself. Now maybe I can admit it to Maribeth and Dad. If I can tell them, then I might be able to tell Steven.'  
  
Across town, in a dusty old warehouse, a shadowy figure laughed.  
  
"So, Deputy Chief of Police in Charge of the Valley Division, Steve Sloan, has a bastard daughter from back east, and he hired her onto the LAPD himself. She's a cop, a dirty cop, and she's working for me." He leered. "Now that'll be one hell of a headline."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily's cell phone rang, and she answered it. Lately she dreaded every call, knowing that sooner or later it would be the one to turn her life upside down.  
  
"Lieutenant Stephens."  
  
"Hey, sweetie!"  
  
"Hi, Mom," she couldn't even pretend to be cheerful anymore.  
  
"Wow, why so glum?"  
  
Emily yawned, "Just tired, Mom. How's it going?"  
  
"Really well, honey, but we miss you. Your daddy misses you."  
  
"I miss him, too, Mom, but you know I had to leave. I can't take the cold anymore."  
  
"I know, honey, but Daddy and I have been talking. Pretty soon we'll both be retired, and…"  
  
"No, Mother. Absolutely not."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You are *not* going to move out here and hover over me. I am recovered. I have healed. I am well. I do *not* need taking care of any more. The virus didn't kill me, and I promise I won't have a relapse. Please, just give me some room, Mom!"  
  
Liv sighed, and when she spoke again, Emily could hear the tears in her voice. God, how she wished she could tell her mom about what was to come!  
  
"Sweetheart, I'm sorry if I fuss over you, but I've lost so much. I want to keep the people I love most close to me."  
  
Emily softened her voice.  
  
"I know, Mom. I'm sorry for snapping. I…"  
  
Call waiting interrupted.  
  
"I have a beep, Mom. I'll call you later, ok?"  
  
"Ok, sweetie. Love you."  
  
"Love you too, Mom."  
  
She pushed the button that switched her to the other call and said again, "Lieutenant Stephens."  
  
Her contact was succinct. "They move him in two hours. Assemble you team."  
  
"We're not ready, sir."  
  
"Too bad. They are."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
He gave her the address and hung up without another word.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily called Rossi. He would call Marino and Velasquez. Then she ducked into Captain Cioffi's office for a minute. If only he knew. What would he say?  
  
"Hey, Cap?"  
  
"Yes, Lieutenant?"  
  
She held up her injured hand and said, "I, uh, laid myself open last night, and it hurts like the devil. I think it may be infected. Would it be all right with you if I went to the hospital and had it checked out? I'll make up the time at the end of shift."  
  
Cioffi frowned and asked, "How'd you hurt yourself, Stephens?"  
  
"I'd rather not say, sir. It's embarrassing," she grinned, and Cioffi smiled back. She knew no one could resist her grin.  
  
"Ok, Stephens. Just let Bremer know where you're going, and keep your phone and pager on."  
  
"Will do, Cap. Thank you, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
At the warehouse, Emily and her men changed into their gear. Each of them had a suit of full body armor. It was lightweight and flexible, top of the line new materials. She wondered where her contact had acquired it. Only the feds and the CIA had stuff like that. She'd like to explore that avenue sometime.  
  
"Ok, gentlemen, this is the real deal. This is *not* a drill. Two and a half minutes. In, out, and on our way."  
  
"Where do we go after we get him," Rossi asked.  
  
"I have the address," she said. "I'll tell you when you need to know."  
  
"I ain't goin' nowhere 'til you tell us."  
  
She aimed her 9mm at his head and said, "Then you're goin' to hell, Rossi. You in or you out?"  
  
He swallowed, hard, and whispered, "In."  
  
She gave a nasty little grin and said, "Good."  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti was pacing, out of his mind with fear. Agent Wagner had promised him they'd get him out before anyone tried to move him. He was scheduled to leave in less than thirty minutes. He knew if they took him out of this house, he'd be dead before he got to the new place. That's how the Mob worked. They'd blow him away in transit. Or maybe they'd kidnap and torture him first to see what he could tell them about the cops. Either way, he'd never get to see his kid or his grandkid.  
  
The door to his room burst open, and four gray-clad figures piled in. They were wearing body armor, even gloves and hoods.  
  
"Sixty seconds," said the tall thin one. By her voice, he could tell she was a woman. She looked at him with piercing green-gold eyes and said, "Agent Wagner sends his regards."  
  
A thick cloth was slipped over his face, and he smelled a pungent odor. He tried to hold his breath, but he'd already been panting from nerves. He didn't last long.  
  
"One fifteen," he heard the woman say as he slipped into the darkness.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Two fifteen," Emily called out. "Hustle it up, Velasquez."  
  
They'd made it this far without having to kill anyone. Marino had taken out the one and only guard they had encountered by knocking him out with chloroform.  
  
Velasquez finished hotwiring, and the van roared to life. She waved Rossi and Marino out of their cover. They were stealing the feds' own van. They had another vehicle stashed not far away. They would transfer Moretti to it, and Rossi and Velasquez would ditch the feds' van while she and Marino took Moretti in the other direction. The feds would follow the signal from the LoJack device, and just keep getting farther and farther away from Moretti. They would all meet up later at a location she had yet to tell them.  
  
The men dumped Moretti in the van, and Marino climbed in. Velasquez was already in the driver's seat. Emily took a moment to make the old man more comfortable and strapped him in. As she turned to offer Rossi a hand up, she found herself looking down the barrel of his gun.  
  
"What the…"  
  
"Shut up and get out."  
  
She did as she was told. Even full body armor wouldn't stop a .45 slug at this range. Marino and Velasquez came to the back of the van.  
  
"Rossi," Marino said, "What the hell you doin'?"  
  
Without looking away, Rossi said, "I told you I was gonna kill the bitch. Well, now I'm gonna kill her."  
  
Emily watched Rossi's eyes carefully. People tended to squint just as they were about to fire, probably in anticipation of the noise. Behind him, she saw someone come out of the building. The she saw his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. The feds opened fire just a heartbeat before Rossi, and as Emily dove into the back of the van, Rossi doubled over backward.  
  
"Oh, *hell*" she screamed as the bullet tore through her shoulder. In the next breath she said, "Thank you, *Jesus*. It wasn't my heart."  
  
She crawled through the van and clambered over the seats to slip in place behind the wheel. Releasing the brake, she tore off into the night, leaving her team behind to answer some very tough questions.  
  
  
  
  
  
A few blocks away, she stopped. The van the team had stashed was there. She looked around suspiciously. There was no way she was taking it. It could be bugged. She looked around the neighborhood, and spotted a white Ford. That would do nicely. She grabbed the slim jim Velasquez had left on the seat.  
  
Moretti was still out. She hauled him over her good shoulder, and walked over to the vehicle. Taking a small device off her belt, she aimed it at the car and heard the faint electronic beep when her gadget disarmed the theft deterrent system. Then she jimmied the door, dumped the old man on the back seat, tore into the ignition, and brought the engine to life. All the technology in the world, she thought, and you could still break in to a car and hotwire it in under a minute, *if* you knew what your were doing.  
  
"Thank you, Mama, for teaching me."  
  
  
  
"Dr. Steven Sloan, please."  
  
The hospital operator looked at the board and told the woman on the other end of the line, "I'm sorry, ma'am. He's signed out for the day. Can I take a message?"  
  
The young operator heard a stifled curse, then, "Is Dr. Jesse Travis available?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am, he's still here. Whom shall I say is calling?"  
  
There was a pause, then, "Tell him it's Olivia's kid. He'll know who I am. And tell him it's a matter of life and death."  
  
A moment later Jesse took the phone and said, "Emily."  
  
"Jesus, how did you know my name?"  
  
"Steve, uh, the Chief told me."  
  
"I see." There was a long pause. Then she said, "Meet me at the ER entrance, or a lot of people, including the Chief, might die. You have three minutes. Bring some bandages, antibiotics, and a suture kit."  
  
"What's going on, Emily?"  
  
"You have two and a half minutes, doctor. I suggest you hurry."  
  
  
  
  
  
Jesse was out the door in two minutes and twenty-five seconds, with everything he'd been told to bring, and then some. A big white Ford pulled up, the power windows slid down, and he found himself staring down the barrel of a very large gun.  
  
"You're on time. I like that. Wish I'd had you on my team. Get in."  
  
Jesse didn't argue.  
  
She handed him a rag and said, "Blindfold yourself."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So you stay alive."  
  
He did as instructed.  
  
Jesse tried to pay attention to the twists and turns as they rode through the city for what seemed like hours, but he had so many questions, he kept getting distracted. For some strange reason, he wanted to make small talk.  
  
"So, you're Emily, huh?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Got a middle name?"  
  
"Three of 'em actually."  
  
"No kidding."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"What are they?"  
  
He heard her sigh and take a deep breath.  
  
"My full name is Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens. Mom and Dad wanted to honor their friends, but they also wanted me to have a name that I could use without bringing up all the history every time I signed a check."  
  
"I see."  
  
"I doubt you do."  
  
"I was there, Emily. I know what Ted did, and I know what happened at the wedding. I was Steve's best man."  
  
"Whatever."  
  
The sound of the car changed, and Jesse guessed they were inside a large building. He reached for the blindfold, but felt her slap his hand away.  
  
"Leave it on for now!"  
  
"Look, Emily, I'm willing to help you, but you have to trust me."  
  
"I know Dr. Travis, but there are people who…if they think you know…if they…"  
  
She stopped and got out of the car. Jesse felt the door beside him open and she said, "There are people who would kill you to keep you from telling anyone where I am, and there are people who would make you wish you were dead to make you give them the same information. I need your help, but you were in danger the moment you answered that call. I'm doing the best I can under very difficult circumstances to protect you. Help me by leaving the blindfold on, ok?"  
  
She sounded almost friendly.  
  
"On one condition," he demanded.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Call me Jesse."  
  
"Ok." 


	8. Hiding Out

(Chapter 8. CGH, various places in LA, Amanda's office. March 3, 2033.)  
  
  
  
Steve and Amanda were alone in the lab, waiting for the paternity test results.  
  
"So, what if it's positive?"  
  
"It's going to be positive, Amanda. I know it already; I just need some solid proof before I tell Steven, Dad, and Maribeth."  
  
"Well," Amanda tried to sound hopeful, "until we have the test results, let's just say, what *if* it's positive?"  
  
Steve shrugged.  
  
"I guess I have to tell Steven. I mean, really, if I don't, Amanda, that's…" he shuddered, unable to utter the word 'incest'.  
  
"It's going to be hard on everyone, Steve."  
  
"I know, but do I have any other choice?"  
  
"I guess not," she said dejectedly.  
  
She came over and put her arm around him. "Hey, Steve, it'll be ok."  
  
"I hope so."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily helped Jesse out of the Ford, and she led him to a different vehicle. He could tell this one had an open top, and it smelled of leather. "Hmm," he said, "a convertible."  
  
"You're good. How'd you guess?"  
  
"The air doesn't feel closed in."  
  
He heard some humor in her voice as she said, "It was my Mom's. It's a 1976 Corvette Stingray t-top coupe, metallic dark green with caramel- colored leather interior and all the original equipment."  
  
"Cool."  
  
"Definitely." He felt her putting the top up. The air closed in around him. "But also conspicuous. I have to hide it somewhere."  
  
"Emily, what do you need me for?"  
  
"You'll know soon enough."  
  
It was only a few minutes this time. He sensed when they pulled into another building, and this time, she said, "Ok, you can remove the blindfold."  
  
He did so, and the first thing he did was look at her. He knew she was only thirty, but she looked much older, much too tired to be so young. Then he noticed her bloodied shoulder.  
  
"Man, that's a mess. Let me get a look at it."  
  
"Inside, Dr. Travis."  
  
"Hey," he said gently warning her, "you agreed to call me Jesse, remember?"  
  
She smiled. "I guess I did."  
  
She let him help her out of the car and into the house. As they entered the main room, Jesse saw an old man cuffed to the radiator.  
  
"Hey, cop. It's about time you came back. What if they'd found me?"  
  
"Shut up, Moretti. You're still alive and you haven't even said thank you yet."  
  
"Moretti?" Jesse said in shock, "Giancarlo Moretti? Jesus, Emily."  
  
"It's a long story, Doc…Jesse. You're safer if you don't know."  
  
"I'm not so sure I believe you."  
  
He sat her down and helped her remove the top of the body armor and the blouse she wore beneath it. He saw Moretti leering, and gently turned her around.  
  
"Jealous bastard, ain'tcha, Doc?"  
  
Looking over Emily's head, he echoed her sentiments from before.  
  
"Shut up, Moretti."  
  
Examining the wound, Jesse told her, "I have to get you to a hospital, Emily. That shoulder's a mess."  
  
"No. No hospital."  
  
"Emily…"  
  
"No, Jesse. The people who did this would come for me there. Innocent people might get hurt. Like it or not, I have to keep that swine alive. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are."  
  
"Emily, I have to irrigate the wound before I stitch it up. It's gonna hurt like hell."  
  
"I know. I've survived worse."  
  
Jesse studied her face. It was pale and drawn, but determined. Pain lines were etched deep around her mouth and eyes, pain and something more. That something more made Jesse's decision for him.  
  
"I do believe you have."  
  
He got her over to the couch and had her lay down. Then he found an old rag, balled it up, and told her, "Squeeze that if it hurts."  
  
She nodded, and he went to work.  
  
Nearly half an hour later, Emily was trembling and sweating, in shock because of the pain. She hadn't cried out once. She hadn't flinched, hadn't moved. Jesse was impressed. She was even tougher than Steve. That brought on a grin.  
  
"Your father would be proud of you."  
  
"I didn't realize you knew my dad," she said, eyeing him warily.  
  
'Me and my big mouth,' Jesse thought.  
  
"Oh, I didn't know Keith well," he tried to say lightly, "but well enough to know he'd be proud."  
  
She smiled.  
  
"Thanks."  
  
She tried to sit up, but Jesse gently pushed her back down.  
  
"Jesse…"  
  
"No. Don't even argue. You come here out of the blue, kidnap me at gunpoint…"  
  
"Hey, me, too," the half-forgotten mobster called.  
  
They both yelled, "Shut up, Moretti!"  
  
Looking back at Emily, Jesse continued softly, "You need to rest. You've lost a lot of blood, and I *know* the pain of that procedure took a lot out of you. You need some sleep."  
  
"Now is not the time, Jesse."  
  
"Look, does anyone know where you are?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Do you expect anyone to find you any time soon?"  
  
"Not for at least a day or two."  
  
"Then rest." He went over to the table and picked up her weapon. Brandishing it about with a confidence he did not feel, he said, "Steve made sure I learned how to shoot. If anyone breaks in, I'll shoot, and the noise will wake you up. Rest until morning, then we'll have some breakfast, then you can get rid of me. I promise."  
  
Emily thought about it a moment, and nodded. After all, he'd promised. She closed her eyes, snuggled down into the couch, and Jesse pulled an afghan over her.  
  
After a few seconds, she opened one eye and said, "For a while there, I wasn't sure I could tell the good guys from the bad guys anymore, Jesse. Thanks for clearing things up." Nodding back towards Moretti, she said, "Don't let him out of your sight."  
  
"I won't. Now sleep."  
  
Soon her breathing evened out and she was sleeping soundly.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve's pager went off, and he dialed the phone. As Amanda watched, the color drained from his face. He slumped down on the desk. "Oh, no."  
  
"Steve?"  
  
He held up a hand to hush her.  
  
"Ok, I'll be there ASAP."  
  
As he hung up, Amanda blocked his exit from the lab and asked, "Steve, what's wrong? What happened?"  
  
Knowing it would be easier to tell her than argue, he said, "You'll have to settle for the short version."  
  
She nodded.  
  
Taking a deep breath, Steve summarized as quickly as he could.  
  
"The feds have been protecting a Mafioso named Giancarlo Moretti. The Gaudino indictments were a direct result of his testimony before the grand jury, and he's expected to testify soon at the trial. After the Gaudino trial, the LAPD gets a crack at Moretti for evidence against Gaudino in several other open investigations, including one on further mob corruption of the force. Problem is, there's some pretty strong evidence that someone in the witness protection program is in with the Mob, and there was a real concern that Moretti would never make it to the hearings."  
  
"Ok. So what does that have to do with you?"  
  
"There was also a plot going within the LAPD to kidnap Moretti as the Feds moved him to a new safe-house. Ron tells me Emily was part of that plot."  
  
"Oh, God, Steve, no."  
  
Steve shook his head. "The other day, Ron asked me to arrange a safe house for Moretti. It seemed that Emily was legit, that she had infiltrated the conspiracy and was ready to help get Moretti out. But Ron wasn't sure. I was. I just didn't think Liv's kid could go wrong. Ron was expecting her to turn Moretti over to me."  
  
"What went wrong?"  
  
"Apparently everything. The kidnapping almost worked. They were just loading Moretti in the van when Emily's own men turned on her. Martin Rossi pulled his weapon on her. The feds shot at Rossi and the other two men, and they're pretty sure they saw Rossi shoot Emily."  
  
"Rossi…" Amanda muttered, then snapping her fingers, "I know him. I mean I've met him. He's one of Dion's Lieutenants, isn't he?"  
  
Steve nodded. "I'm sorry, Amanda. This will reflect badly on him for a while, but Dion's a good cop. He'll rise above it."  
  
"I know he will, Steve," she said patting his shoulder affectionately. "He trained with the best."  
  
Steve smiled and said, "Thanks, 'Manda."  
  
They were silent a moment. Then Amanda asked, "There's more, isn't there?"  
  
Steve nodded reluctantly. "A couple hours ago, someone called for Steven. When he was unavailable, she asked for Jesse instead. Immediately after the call, Jesse signed himself out, went to the supply closet and got a suture kit, bandages, morphine, antibiotics, an irrigation tray…"  
  
Amanda interrupted. "Everything he needed to treat a gunshot wound."  
  
"Yeah. Well, someone saw him leave the hospital in a big white Ford. A redhead was driving, and she had a gun on him."  
  
"Why didn't anyone come get you?"  
  
Steve gave an exasperated look.  
  
"Considering the purpose of my visit, I didn't exactly go out of my way to let anyone know I was here. Word eventually filtered back to Leigh Ann, and she contacted me here."  
  
"Oh, I see," Amanda nodded. "What do you think she's going to do next?"  
  
Steve shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, or at least settle them in some kind of order.  
  
"We don't know whose side she's on now, Amanda. Jesse's definitely not safe, but we don't know if he's in danger from her, or from the people who are after her."  
  
"Oh, Steve," Amanda said sympathetically. "What are you going to do?"  
  
Steve shrugged.  
  
"Find him."  
  
  
  
  
  
The man in the warehouse grinned evilly. The Chief's bastard brat had Moretti, and she was on the run. What's more, she had kidnapped the Chief's best friend. What a scoop! The best part was, he could sit on this story until he needed a distraction…or until he was ready to complete his revenge. 


	9. On the Run

(Chapter 9. Emily's hiding place, the beach house, Olivia's home in Pennsylvania, a park in LA. March 4-5, 2033.)  
  
Emily yawned, stretched, and gasped in pain. It took her all of two seconds to remember what had happened that afternoon, and when she did, she was up and on her feet in half a heartbeat. Half a second after that, she was sitting on the couch wishing she hadn't moved so fast.  
  
She heard a slightly amused voice say, "Took you by surprise, didn't it."  
  
This time, she got up more slowly and said, "Yeah. I guess so." Looking around, she asked, "Where's Moretti?"  
  
"After you finally fell asleep, I examined him. Given his age and lifestyle, the stress of recent events was really starting to wear on him. I fixed him something to eat and then took him back to the bedroom so he could sleep more comfortably."  
  
Emily's face clouded, realizing that the doctor had broken his promise not to let the mobster out of his sight. She headed quickly for the bedroom, but Jesse stepped in front of her and said, "He needs some rest, too. He's cuffed to the bed. I just checked on him five minutes ago, and he was still out like a light."  
  
"I need to see him."  
  
"Just don't wake him."  
  
She nodded and Jesse stepped aside.  
  
A few minutes later, she was back out in the main room of the small house, looking in the refrigerator. To Jesse, she seemed a bit listless, somewhat disoriented.  
  
"How long was I out," she asked.  
  
Jesse consulted his watch and said, "About twelve hours. It's Wednesday morning. Eight thirty. Why don't you have a seat, and I'll fix you something for breakfast?"  
  
Jesse felt her stare as a physical force. She was at least six inches taller than him, and such careful scrutiny from a statuesque young woman in a sports-bra and combat fatigues made him uneasy. Who was he kidding? She was downright intimidating. At least he'd gotten her out of the rest of the body armor and into the sports-bra last night. She'd only woken for a few minutes, and she probably didn't remember it.  
  
She raised one eyebrow and said, "Why are you so eager to help me?"  
  
"It's been years since I've seen your mom, Emily, but I still consider her a friend, and while you might not be able to tell the good guys from the bad, I still can. You're one of the good ones. Besides, I'm a doctor, and you're hurt. It's what I do."  
  
He took her gently by the elbow and guided her over to the table.  
  
"Sit, relax, let me fix breakfast."  
  
She sat and said, "Sausage, eggs over easy, whole wheat toast with butter, juice, and coffee, please."  
  
Jesse chuckled. "Eating like that will kill you, kid."  
  
"Good health is only a measure of how long it takes you to die," she said wryly.  
  
'God,' Jesse thought, 'No wonder Steve thinks she's his. She sounds just like him.'  
  
"So, would you like to explain to me what's going on now," he asked in his friendliest tone.  
  
"No."  
  
He sighed and said, "It might help to have a friend to talk to."  
  
"You're not my friend. I'm using you, and when I don't need you any longer, I'm going to dump you somewhere."  
  
Jesse felt a chill.  
  
He sat her breakfast in front of her and watched as she bowed her head briefly before she began to eat. Maybe if he could just stretch the silence long enough, she'd feel like filling it. Silence and patience were two things he'd never been good at. Now he wished he'd practiced more.  
  
She ate slowly, clearly enjoying her meal, and Jesse found himself feeling strangely glad that she enjoyed his cooking. Steve was right; she looked just like her mother, only bigger. Long curly red hair cascaded from a ponytail on the top of her head; she had full red lips and lively green- gold eyes. She moved with the natural grace of a model. Her porcelain skin was scattered with freckles, and, now that she was rested, the soft contours of her face made her look younger than her years.  
  
As she finished cleaning her plate and gulping her coffee, she asked, "Has Moretti had his breakfast?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
"I'll go wake him. Would you mind getting something for him to eat while I find us another ride? Then I'll want you to check my shoulder again."  
  
He smiled, she was tougher than Steve, all right, but she had a lot more sense, too.  
  
"Ok, but let me take care of your shoulder first."  
  
"It can wait. It's not that urgent."  
  
"I know but…" Jesse suddenly felt shy. "I didn't like the way Moretti was looking at you when you took your clothes off to let me dress the wound last night."  
  
At her puzzled look, he added heatedly, "If you were my daughter, I'd have kicked the crap out of him."  
  
She gave him a lopsided little smile and said, "How very chivalrous of you, Dr. Travis." Then she sat down and eased off the sports-bra. She held it against herself to cover her breasts and looked away as he checked and redressed her wound.  
  
"Well, it's not infected," Jesse said as he turned to the sink to wash his hands while she put her top back on.  
  
"Good. And…thank you…about Moretti."  
  
Jesse just nodded.  
  
"Ok, fix him some breakfast, please. I'll go wake him. We can't stay here much longer."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because my mother owns this place, and they'll eventually come check it out."  
  
"Who are they?"  
  
She sneered. "Take your pick. Mob, feds, marshals, LAPD. There's no telling who wants us dead and who wants us alive."  
  
Jesse shuddered as she went back the hall. He knew that now, *us* included *him*.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve, Mark, Amanda, Ron, Dion, and Cheryl were all meeting at the beach house. Hannah, Ron and Amanda's daughter, would meet them there when she finished her shift at the microbiology lab at the university. They were downstairs in Mark's apartment. Over the years, their gatherings had shifted locations as their families grew. They all wanted to protect their loved ones from the nastier aspects of their cases, and while it sometimes proved impossible, they did the best they could.  
  
"How did Steven take it," Dion asked.  
  
"He was upset," Steve told him. The truth was, Steven was outraged, not that Emily had kidnapped Jesse at gunpoint, but that Steve had suggested Jess might be in danger with her. He was so angry he refused to even wait at the beach house for word of her whereabouts. He said he'd prefer to stay at her place in case she tried to call there. Steve could just imagine the fallout he'd be dealing with once the results of the paternity test were in.  
  
"Steve. Steve?"  
  
"Huh? What? Sorry, Cheryl. I was lost in thought there."  
  
"I noticed. You've been doing that a lot, lately. Are you ok?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm fine, just worried about Jess. What did you ask?"  
  
"I said, did Steven have any idea where she might be?"  
  
"Oh, no. No he didn't. He says they've both been so busy that the only place they've really seen each other is at her place. He doesn't even know where she hangs out or who her friends are."  
  
The phone rang, and Mark got up to get it.  
  
"Now, if she got here in September, and didn't get hired until February, what was she doing all that time," Amanda asked.  
  
Ron joined the conversation. "She was working for me, I think. At least she seemed to be." He sounded guilty.  
  
Amanda patted his shoulder and said, "Ron, right now we have no evidence that she wasn't, or isn't still, working for you."  
  
"I know, hon, but I have a bad feeling about this. She was supposed to wait for my call, but she never answered her cell phone. I think she's getting her info and her orders from someone else."  
  
"Then we have to find out who that someone else is," said Steve.  
  
Ron nodded. "There are two people above me who knew, the men who were guarding Moretti, and you, Steve."  
  
"And Emily."  
  
"Yeah," Ron sighed, "and Emily."  
  
Mark returned to the group and waved them to hush. "Ok, Roger. Thanks. I know you did your best, that's all I could ask."  
  
He clicked the phone off and said, "That was my friend, Roger, at the TV station. The story about Emily will be the lead on the national news broadcasts tonight. The big three, CNN, and World Today. I think it's time to call Olivia."  
  
He handed the phone to Steve and said, "It's speed dial eight."  
  
Steve looked at him askance, and Mark just shrugged. "We've kept in touch."  
  
Steve nodded and said, "Can I use the bedroom for a little privacy?"  
  
"Sure, son."  
  
  
  
  
  
Jesse sat at the table in the little house watching Moretti eat. Emily had left them to go in search of less conspicuous transportation. Moretti was cuffed to the chair, and he was having a hard time eating one handed. He was a little younger than Jesse, but he looked older. He looked a lot older. Jesse was having a hard time deciding if it was stress or his profligate lifestyle that had made the Mafioso age so soon.  
  
Several times, the mobster had looked up and caught Jesse watching. Each time, he had attempted to stare Jesse down, but after thirty years of working cases with Steve and Mark, he wasn't so easy to intimidate. Now, Emily could spook him, but a used up old Mafioso didn't have a chance. Moretti looked at him again, and Jesse just stared steadily.  
  
Moretti had had enough.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"Why you keep starin' at me, Doc?"  
  
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jesse said blandly. "I didn't realize I was. I was just thinking." On the inside he was laughing. He just *knew* he could make the man talk.  
  
"You don't last as long as I have in a business like mine without knowin' when people are lyin' to ya, Doc. There's somethin' on your mind, and it has somethin' ta do wit me. I wanna know what it is."  
  
"What do the cops have on you?" Jesse asked, giving more of the tone of idle curiosity than any real desire to know.  
  
"Nothin'," the Moretti barked proudly.  
  
Jesse snorted derisively. "You expect me to believe that, as dangerous as it is to roll over on the mob? You're not helping them send Vince Gaudino to jail for nothing. Don't tell me it's your sense of civic duty."  
  
Moretti narrowed his eyes to mere slits. If it got the doc to stop staring at him, why not tell him? The whole world would know soon anyway.  
  
"I got a kid who's a cop."  
  
Jesse laughed. "There've been a lot of mobsters in the LAPD lately. They'll find him out eventually."  
  
Moretti shook his head and explained.  
  
"You don't get it, Doc. He's a good cop. About ten years ago, Gaudino ordered a hit on him. My kid survived," Moretti sounded proud, "but the case he was workin' on was dismissed while he was in the hospital because he was the key witness."  
  
"So," Jesse suggested, "You're avenging the attempt on your son's life."  
  
"I guess," Moretti agreed. "Problem is, he don't know about me. His mom left before he was born. I didn't look too hard for her because I didn't want a kid then. Now I do."  
  
"And you think you can go into court, testify, yell, 'Daddy's home' and he'll welcome you with open arms, huh?" Jesse couldn't believe the man's nerve, and his tone of voice made it clear.  
  
Moretti was angry now. He brought his hand down on the table with a resounding thud. He stammered for a moment, choked with fury. Jesse continued to stare at him, waiting for whatever excuse he had to offer. Suddenly, all emotion drained from his face, his shoulders slumped, and he dropped his gaze to the table.  
  
"I don't expect him to ever want to talk to me. I'm just hopin' maybe one time he'll listen."  
  
Jesse didn't know what to say. He quit staring at the man.  
  
  
  
  
  
Ring…Ring…Ring…  
  
Olivia pushed aside the drapes on her side of the canopy bed.  
  
"God, O, let the machine get it," her husband moaned.  
  
"Keith, it must be important for someone to call at this hour."  
  
She looked at the caller ID box and recognized the familiar California number. Chuckling, she answered the phone.  
  
"My Lord, Mark. Did you forget about time zones? It's just turned six here."  
  
For a moment, there was silence.  
  
"Mark?"  
  
"Liv, it's Steve."  
  
Keith sensed the sudden change in atmosphere and turned to look at his wife. She was ashen pale, a sickly smile pasted to her face was just beginning to melt away, and all the mirth had left her eyes. She slumped into a chair.  
  
"You're calling about Em. Is she still alive?"  
  
Keith sat up in bed. Olivia turned on the speakerphone.  
  
"Liv, you there?"  
  
"Steve, it's Keith, you're on speaker. Is Emmy ok?"  
  
Steve had been wondering what he was going to say after thirty years. The facts came out of him with surprising ease.  
  
"As far as we know, she's alive, but we think she's been shot. I can't tell you everything right now, but you'll hear some of it on the six o'clock news tonight. She's wanted for kidnapping a federal witness. She was supposed to bring him to a safe house, but she disappeared with him. Then she kidnapped Jesse. She's been missing for about eighteen hours."  
  
"She's a good girl, Steve," Olivia said. "She wouldn't break the rules unless there was something wrong with the system."  
  
"I hope you're right, Liv."  
  
"I know I am, Steve. She must have found out someone was…untrustworthy. Something must have gone wrong. Emmy plays by the rules."  
  
"That's what we're hoping, Liv. If that's not the case, well, she's in a hell of a lot of trouble."  
  
"What can we do to help, Steve," asked Keith.  
  
"Not much from there," Steve told him, "but if you could come out here, maybe you could help us think of places she might be hiding."  
  
"I…uh…I have some money invested in various properties out there, Steve. I told Meyer to set up a financial relief fund after the big quake in '05."  
  
Steve's grin could be heard three thousand miles away. "I figured you did, Liv. Can you fax us a list of properties, especially the vacant ones? She may be there."  
  
"I'll get Meyer on it right away," said Liv. "We'll be there as soon as we can."  
  
  
  
  
  
"So, what went wrong?"  
  
Jesse and Moretti were still sitting at the table waiting for Emily to return.  
  
"Hell if I know," Moretti said. "I knew for a fact that two of the guys 'protecting' me were wit' the Ganza Family. I managed to find a chance to talk wit' Agent Wagner privately, an' he gave me his word that he would get me out alive. Yesterday they decided to move me to a new safe house, an' I knew if Wagner didn't get me then, I'd be dead. I was pacin' in my room, four guys busted in, wearin' full combat armor, only one of 'em was the lady cop, an' they knocked me out wit' chloroform. I came to in an SUV, wit' just her an' nobody else, an' she'd been shot. She brought me here, dumped me, cuffed me to the radiator, left, came back wit' food, left, came back wit' you, an' you know the rest."  
  
"She hasn't told you anything?"  
  
"She told me she was a cop, an' she told me to shut up."  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"Yep. She's ain't the talkative type."  
  
Jesse wrinkled his brow in thought. "What do you think she's doing?"  
  
"I think she's keepin' my ass alive."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"So I can testify."  
  
"You sound awfully sure about that. How do you know she isn't holding you for the mob?"  
  
Moretti stuck his fleshy lower lip out in a thoughtful pout.  
  
"It's like this, Doc. I figure if she wanted me dead, I'd be dead by now. If she grabbed me to sell me to the mob, I'd be dead by now, or hangin' by my thumbs in a warehouse, bein' used as a punchin' bag until I told them what I knew about the cops. See, I know which cops are really dirty, and which ones just look dirty so they can catch the ones who really are."  
  
It took Jesse a minute to follow his reasoning. When he caught up, he nodded to encourage Moretti to continue.  
  
"If she was freelance, just in it for the money, she'd have found a buyer for me by now. She'd have had one lined up before she snatched me."  
  
Moretti grew thoughtful again. Finally, he said, "I don't think she knows who to trust anymore, an' she's decided to just look after me all by herself."  
  
Jesse looked at the man very seriously and said, "Maybe you ought to thank her."  
  
Just then, Emily came in, startling both men half out of their wits.  
  
"I don't need him to thank me. I need him to *shut up*."  
  
"Look cop…" Moretti began.  
  
"Look, Moretti," she interrupted. "You know as well as I do, the less we tell him, the safer he *and* we are."  
  
She came up behind Jesse and rested a hand on his shoulder. He was surprised at how large her hands were.  
  
"Jess," she said, "I want to thank you for taking care of my shoulder. It feels much better this morning. And thanks for making breakfast. I'm really sorry I have to do this."  
  
Jesse gasped as her hand suddenly came around his face, and as he gasped, he inhaled chloroform. He knew he couldn't win, but he fought to stay awake as long as he could. He lasted less than a minute.  
  
  
  
  
  
Leigh Ann was on her cell phone again.  
  
"Sir, Chief Sloan has just received a fax listing of vacant properties owned or financed by some organization called the LA Promise Foundation. Officer Cioffi has been asked to take them out to his house in Malibu. I thought you should know."  
  
"Thank you Leigh Ann. I know of the foundation, and I think I know why he wants the records. You've done well."  
  
"Thank you, sir. What should I do about it?"  
  
"Make sure I get those same records, please, Leigh Ann."  
  
"Yes, sir. I'll have them for you tonight."  
  
"Very good. Good bye, Leigh Ann."  
  
"Good bye, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
After Jesse was out, Emily eased him to the floor, tucked a letter, the keys to the 'Vette, and the mother-of-pearl and paua shell watch her mom had given her into his hand. She put a hand in front of his face to make sure he was still breathing, and when she was satisfied that the small, older man would be ok, she turned to Moretti.  
  
She uncuffed the mobster from his chair, and was about to bring his hands around to cuff them behind him when he spoke.  
  
Nodding toward Jesse's crumpled form on the floor, he said, "The little guy's right. I should thank you."  
  
"Shut up, Moretti," she said tiredly.  
  
"Listen, cop…Emily…" His tone softened when he spoke her name. "I know I'd be dead if it weren't for you. I…trust you to keep me alive, and I think I know what kind of risk you're takin'. I won't try to run away."  
  
She paused.  
  
"If you get rid of the cuffs, I won't slow you down as much."  
  
She narrowed her eyes at him, nodded, and removed the cuffs.  
  
"Try it, and I'll cut you off at the knees."  
  
Moretti nodded. "I understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
"…and we can tell by the concentration of the particles how long ago she's been there, and maybe even which way she was heading. Any recovered stolen vehicle, we could tell within minutes if she had been in it and how long ago."  
  
Hannah was explaining how they could use Emily's 'viral profile' to track her. It was part of her doctoral research, and the young woman was eager to put it into practice.  
  
"It should be really easy, too, because no one else in LA has had the BioGen virus."  
  
Steve shook his head. "I still don't understand."  
  
"Every illness changes the body, Uncle Steve. Every strain of flu, every cold virus, has a signature, an imprint, if you will, that it leaves on the body. Even though the virus is no longer active, the person's immune system has permanently changed in the act of fighting it off."  
  
"Ok, that much I follow."  
  
"Good. Now each person, over his or her lifetime, contracts a different combination of illnesses; so, each person has a different viral profile."  
  
Steve thought a moment.  
  
"Got it."  
  
"Usually, we would have to compile a person's entire medical history to get an accurate viral profile; but since Emily has had the BioGen virus, all we have to do is look for that signature, and we can track her."  
  
"And this gadget of yours can identify that signature?" Steve gestured toward her invention. It looked like a cross between a bicycle pump and a battery charger.  
  
Hannah nodded, excited that her godfather was understanding.  
  
"Everywhere we go we shed skin cells and hair and mites and all kinds of stuff. If we can just get the signature of the BioGen virus, or a blood, hair, skin, or tissue sample from Emily, this thing will track her like a bloodhound."  
  
Steve nodded. "A bloodhound. Now *that's* an analogy I can understand. You work on getting this profile, and I'll work on getting blood or tissue samples. Will hair do?"  
  
"If the follicle's attached."  
  
"I should be able to manage that, if Steven will let me."  
  
Mark came into the room, phone glued to his ear.  
  
"Yes, here he is," he said, handing the phone to Steve.  
  
"Deputy Chief Sloan here."  
  
"Chief, it's Lieutenant Stephens."  
  
"Emily! Where the hell are you? What do you think you're doing?"  
  
"Peck Park. Two thirty tomorrow morning. Western Avenue side phone booth. Bring $100,000. Wait for my call. Triangulate on this signal and you'll find Jesse. He's unharmed. He doesn't know where he is or how he got here. I tried to protect him. I'll talk to you later, sir."  
  
"Emily! Emily! Lieutenant Stephens!"  
  
There had been no click. The line was still open. She was on the move, but leading them right to Jesse's location. What the hell was she up to now?  
  
  
  
  
  
Jesse woke feeling queasy, the result of too much chloroform, he guessed. If he hadn't fought it so hard, he wouldn't have inhaled quite so much when he did breathe in. Oh, well, too late now. He shrugged. He sat up, and the whole world pitched and rolled like the deck of a ship in a storm. He sat for several moments, waiting for things to be still.  
  
With some confusion, he noticed he was holding three things that weren't his. The first was a set of keys to…what? He shrugged, deciding he'd figure it out later. Then there was the watch. He knew it had belonged to Olivia's great grandmother. Why did Emily give him a family heirloom? Last of all, he looked at the envelope. It was addressed to him.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Son of a bitch," Steve roared as he got the address on Jesse's location. "That's less than ten blocks from here."  
  
He paused and listened to the officer who had called with Jesse's location.  
  
"No, no. Commander Banks, Agent Wagner, and Captain Bentley-Wagner are here. Send backup, but we're not waiting."  
  
He hung up the phone and turned to Cheryl, Ron, and Dion and said, "Let's move."  
  
The three men and Cheryl piled into Steve's car.  
  
  
  
  
  
Jesse opened the letter, which appeared to be several pages long and began to read. It was written in block letters, like a police report.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Jesse,  
  
Thank you again for patching me up. You can send me a bill.  
  
The keys are to the 'Vette. Mom gave it to me when I moved out here. Take good care of it for me. You can drive it until I get back, if you like. If you have any trouble with it, ask Mom to recommend a mechanic. I imagine the Chief has called her, and she's on her way by now.  
  
Give the watch to my mom. She has a necklace and ring that match it. Tell her I'll be back for it, but not until Moretti testifies.  
  
It probably won't do any good, but tell the Chief to stop looking for me. I've called him and set up a meeting. I'll give him the full rundown then, but please let him know that we only saw one guard when we grabbed Moretti. Somebody did something to make it way too easy for us. I think Agent Wagner has a leak close to him, because he's the only one who knew my team wasn't ready in time to do anything about it, and I heard from my contact before I heard from him that Moretti was moving.  
  
The next several pages are my will. I will personally flay alive anyone who lets my mother know such a document exists. I know what a risk I am taking, but she has spent quite enough time worrying about me in the past several years. If she knows how scared I am, that I am frightened enough for my life to write a will, she'll worry herself sick.  
  
If I don't make it through this, don't let her dwell on how frightened I might have been. Remind her, every day remind her, that I believed in what I was doing enough to risk everything for it.  
  
Even if the press paints me dirty, remind her that I was one of the good guys.  
  
Well, I've left my cell phone on so the Chief could track the signal and locate you. You'll be seeing him soon. I really am sorry I had to put you at risk, and I'm sorry I had to drug you. It's just one of those things.  
  
Hope to see you again soon under better circumstances.  
  
Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens  
  
P.S. Would you believe the only other people in the world who know all my names are my mom and dad?  
  
P.P.S. Duck! The Chief should be busting in about now.  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
The door crashed open, and, thrusting the letter in his pocket, Jesse ducked. Dion and Cheryl came in first. He went left and she went right. Steve and Ron followed.  
  
Before he sat up, Jesse called out, "They're gone. It's just me."  
  
"Daddy!"  
  
"Lauren? Steve!" Jesse stood and sheltered his little girl in his arms, suddenly furious with his friend. "What the *hell* were you thinking? Why'd you bring her? It could have been dangerous."  
  
"Easy, Uncle Jess," CJ tried to soothe him, grabbing his wrist to check his pulse. "Uncle Steve didn't bring us. We tagged along in my car."  
  
"Without permission," Steve added.  
  
Jesse tried to shake loose of CJ. "I'm ok, I'm ok," he insisted.  
  
Lauren pouted. "Please let him look you over, Daddy. It'll make me feel better."  
  
Jesse caved immediately. His baby girl was spoiled beyond belief. Steve grinned slightly as his friend glowered, but offered not another word of protest. Lauren got whatever she wanted.  
  
As CJ finished his cursory examination announcing that Jesse suffered from 'nothing a little rest won't cure,' Cheryl, Dion, and Ron searched the house. The two men came back into the kitchen shrugging, but Cheryl met up with them grinning.  
  
Turning to Jesse, she asked, "Emily was shot?"  
  
Jesse nodded.  
  
Gingerly taking a bloody bandage out of the trashcan she'd brought with her, she asked, "This is hers?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Cheryl's grin widened, and she turned to Ron, saying, "Call Hannah. Tell her to bring her new toy."  
  
  
  
  
  
It was nearing noon. Steve and Ron had grilled Jesse for nearly an hour. They hated to be so rough on their friend, but they needed every bit of information they could get from him. Meanwhile, Hannah had arrived and taken blood samples back to the university lab to begin isolating the BioGen virus signature. It was the first step in programming her device to track Emily. The forensics team was still crawling all over the place, occasionally asking Jesse about certain items they found.  
  
Finally, he'd had enough.  
  
"Dammit, Steve, I don't know what else to tell you!"  
  
"Jess…"  
  
"No! No, Steve, no more." He leaned back against the kitchen counter. "I was blindfolded before we left the hospital parking lot. We drove inside a big building, she moved me to another car, she let me take the blindfold off here. I treated her shoulder, made her sleep, redressed her wound, made her and Moretti breakfast, babysat Moretti when she left and found out he trusts her, and she knocked me out when she came back. That's it. The *end.* Game over."  
  
He threw his hands in the air in frustration, both at his inability to give useful information and at his friends' insistence that he must know more than he was telling them.  
  
"You know," Ron suggested, "you could be charged with aiding and abetting a fugitive. You had the opportunity to run, and you chose not to."  
  
Jesse stood up and got in Ron's face.  
  
"Ask me if I give a damn."  
  
Anyone who didn't know the gravity of the situation might have laughed at the sight of the shorter man standing up to the tall FBI Agent. Ron was at least ten years older than the ever-youthful doctor, but he still could have pounded the smaller man into the floor like a common carpet tack.  
  
Steve put a hand on Ron's shoulder, drawing him back, and the two of them stepped away, thinking to give Jesse a break to calm down. Jesse slumped against the counter again, pouting and shoved his hands in his pockets. Something was there that shouldn't be. Oh, yes! The letter!  
  
Chagrinned, he said, "Uh, guys? I think I have something you could use here."  
  
  
  
  
  
In spite of everything, Steve had picked Olivia and Keith up at the airport himself. He had expected an awkward reunion with his old flame and her husband, but surprisingly, it went very smoothly. They were all focused on a common purpose--getting Emily back safely. Awkwardness could wait until later.  
  
Olivia had arranged for an electronic funds transfer of $100,000 to a California bank, and she had withdrawn the full amount immediately. Steve would take it with him when he went to meet Emily. Steve postulated, and Keith agreed that she planned to use the funds to pay for food, housing, transportation, false identification, and whatever else she needed to protect Moretti.  
  
They had watched the news together, that night, all of them except for Steven. He was still angry and hiding out at the house in Brentwood. Olivia had turned away in horror when she saw the dead federal marshals. Velasquez and Marino had used a new type of bullet called an annihilation round. It did exactly what its name implied.  
  
"Christ," Keith said, "Emmy's lucky the guy who shot her was using regular ammo. Even if it was a forty-five."  
  
Steve nodded his agreement.  
  
Looking at Jesse, Liv asked, "You're sure her shoulder will be all right?"  
  
Jess nodded, "As long as it doesn't get infected."  
  
Steve was surprised and pleased that Maribeth had offered Keith and Liv the guestroom for the night. They would make other sleeping arrangements later.  
  
Around seven, Lauren brought ribs from Bob's. The twenty-year-old was doing an internship for her degree in small business administration, and to help her out, Steve and Jesse had let her take over the restaurant. She'd been doing an excellent job.  
  
After dinner, Steve had found a private moment out on the patio in which to return Liv's watch. When he put it on her wrist for her, she started to weep.  
  
"Liv, sweetheart, what's wrong," he asked, feeling the tears thick in his own throat.  
  
"It means she's determined to come back, or…"  
  
"Or what, Liv?"  
  
"…or afraid she won't. Bring her back to me Steve. Please, bring her back."  
  
He took her in his arms and comforted her.  
  
Some time later, Maribeth found them, holding each other and weeping, and she responded better than Steve had ever had a right to expect. First, she patted his back and gently squeezed his shoulder. Then she put an arm around Liv and said softly, "Shh. It will be all right. Steve told me what a good cop she is. She's smart, and she'll come through this ok. Come have a cup of tea with me. It will make you feel better."  
  
Steve smiled his gratitude at his loving wife as she led Liv away. Few men got a second chance at once-in-a-lifetime love, and when Liv had married Keith, Steve thought he'd lost his. Now he knew why, and he was profoundly grateful to whatever power had arranged things for him.  
  
Finally, it was nearing midnight. Steve would have to leave soon for his meeting with Emily.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve was at the phone booth in Peck Park on the Western Avenue side, just like he was told to be. It was two thirty and seven seconds when the phone rang.  
  
"Lieutenant, I want Moretti," he said as he picked up the phone.  
  
"I'd like to give him to you Chief, but I can't do that until you can convince me he's safe."  
  
"This could cost you your badge, Lieutenant."  
  
"Who are you kidding, Chief? It could cost me my life. You've got a spot on your shirt."  
  
Steve looked down, confused, and felt his gut wrench and his chest tighten as he saw the red glow of a laser sight centered on his chest. A moment later, it was joined by another, and a moment after that, two more. Four gunmen.  
  
"Jesse said you were working alone."  
  
"He was wrong. He only saw me, but there are others. Look in the change slot."  
  
Again, he followed her directions, and his stomach turned to acid when he found what she had placed there.  
  
"Annihilation rounds."  
  
"Yep. They shoot, and there won't be enough left of you to put back together."  
  
"Who are you working for?"  
  
"The law. Justice."  
  
"What do you want, Emily?"  
  
"When I tell you to do so, you will hang up the phone, put the money on the ground to the left of the booth, get back in the booth, put your hands on the glass in front of you, in the corners of the booth, put your feet on the ground behind you, outside of the booth along the sides. Then I'll come down and we can talk and I can get the money. Do you understand what you are supposed to do?"  
  
"Yes, dammit."  
  
"Then do it now."  
  
As he hung up the phone, Steve briefly considered making a run for it, but he knew at least one of the snipers would get him. With annihilation rounds, one was all it would take. He placed the money on the ground and got back in the phone booth. He placed his hands on the front wall and stepped his feet backwards out of the booth, placing them alongside the outer walls. His heart started thumping. The position left him vulnerable not only for a shooting, but also for a physical assault. With the phone booth between his feet and all his weight on his hands, there was no way he could defend himself.  
  
He looked down at his chest. One of the red dots had vanished.  
  
By the time she came to him, his arms were trembling from supporting his weight and he had broken out into a sweat from the strain. He nearly jumped out of his skin when Emily first touched him. She had snuck up on him without a sound. She did a thorough job of patting him down, and his knees went weak when she touched him gently in some rather intimate spots to check for a wire.  
  
"Not shy, are you," he gasped.  
  
"No more than you are modest, sir. Don't move," she said, and she started untucking his shirt from his trousers. When it was loose, she reached around him and unbuttoned it. Then she unfastened the Velcro closure on his bulletproof vest. He shivered as icy fingers roamed over his chest, searching for the edge of the tape that held the wire he was wearing in place. He moaned in pain as she ripped away the tape. The wire went with it.  
  
"Sorry, Chief, but you don't seem the type to want it slow and easy."  
  
In a van somewhere, Cheryl, Dion, Ron, and Jesse laughed in spite of themselves. Then they jumped and yelled in shock as a squeal of feedback in their headphones nearly deafened them. Finally, they groaned in disgust as they got nothing but static. She had destroyed the transmitter.  
  
"Now what? Take the money and run?"  
  
He stood there shaking as a chill breeze caressed his sweaty skin.  
  
"Not exactly, sir. Did you read the letter I left with Jesse?"  
  
"Yeah, but you still need to turn Moretti over to us, Lieutenant. What you're doing breaks all the regulations."  
  
"No disrespect intended, Chief, but who gives a damn about the regs if Moretti dies? You've got a problem, maybe a leak. Agent Wagner definitely has a leak, and there are more holes in the witness protection program than in a sieve. I can count on me, no one else. Moretti trusts me, no one else. I'll keep him alive. I swear to you, I'll get him to Gaudino's trial alive. You just worry about finding the rat in your own house and tell Agent Wagner to do the same."  
  
"The rat in my own house?"  
  
"I just have this feeling that someone close to you is part of this whole mess. Someone is picking on you. My instincts are good, and I just find it suspicious that everyone associated with this situation is connected with you in some roundabout way."  
  
"What evidence do you have to make you think someone is after me, Lieutenant?"  
  
"Precious little, sir. I know Agent Wagner is a friend of yours, and I know Rossi was one of Captain Bentley-Wagner's lieutenants, so it sounds like they're after Agent Wagner. But when you throw me into the mix, well, that shifts the whole center of things, doesn't it?"  
  
She was silent a moment, waiting.  
  
Steve remained silent, too. He knew she was waiting for him to concede her point. He hated it, but he had to give in.  
  
"I suppose it sounds reasonable, but…"  
  
"But nothing, sir," she interrupted. "I trust you. As far as I'm concerned, you're what people have in mind when they talk about integrity, honor, and trust. But as long as you can't trust the people around you, I can't depend on the help you offer. I have to do this my way."  
  
Steve started slightly as he felt her hand dip into his hip pocket.  
  
"Call that number every day to leave me a message. I'll check it. Tell me when Moretti's scheduled to testify. I'll get him there. I won't let you down."  
  
"That's it, then," Steve said, trying to sound disgusted when he really felt proud of this young woman for having the courage to do what was necessary under the circumstances. "You're going to risk your career, your reputation, and your life just to let some wannbe mafia don have his day in court."  
  
She surprised him by standing so close he could feel the heat from her body and whispering in his ear, "There's a whole lot more at stake than me and my career, sir, and I know you know it."  
  
In his peripheral vision, he saw her take up the briefcase with the money in it. Then he heard her move behind him.  
  
"Just in case I don't make it through this, sir, I want you to know what I said was true. You're the man I think of when people talk about heroes. I hope when this is all over, you and my mom and dad can be proud of me. Tell my folks I'm sorry I worried them, and tell Steven…"  
  
Steve heard a catch in her throat.  
  
"…Just tell him I'm sorry. When the red lights are gone, you're safe to move."  
  
Just as he had never heard her slip up on him, he never heard her slip off. He watched the red dots on his chest intently, and they disappeared one by one. It seemed to take forever.  
  
Finally, the last one was gone. Shakily, breathing a sigh of relief, he straightened up. His old muscles couldn't take that kind of strain anymore. He looked around to be sure that he was alone, took out his cell phone, and called Ron.  
  
"Move in, canvass the area. See if the snipers left anything behind, and find out where the hell she got annihilation rounds." 


	10. Close Call

Ok, for once I'm not making up technology. I'm taking current research and projecting it into the future. The facial recognition program is real. I saw it on PBS a while back. Check it out at: http://www.ri.cmu.edu/projects/project_454.html  
  
  
  
  
  
(Chapter 10. Various places in LA. March 5, 2033.)  
  
  
  
As soon as Steve called in, officers had cordoned off the entire park. They searched and dusted the phone booth and the surrounding area in the light of the street lamps, and finally, around six o'clock, the morning brightened enough for them to search the rest of the park without fear of destroying evidence while they fumbled about in the dark.  
  
"Cap'n, Donovan here. You gotta see this," an officer paged Dion. "I'm at the north end of the park, and you just gotta see it. Words won't do it justice."  
  
Another voice came over the radio, "Let me guess. It's on a tripod about five feet high, black pebbled finish, has a battery pack, electric motor, and some gears."  
  
"How'd you guess," Donovan responded, sounding a bit deflated.  
  
"Got one over here by the band shell."  
  
"And down here on the playground," a third voice added.  
  
"By the groundskeeper's shed, too," came a fourth report.  
  
Dion looked at Steve, who took the radio and said, "We'll be right there, Donovan. The rest of you, whatever it is, dust it for prints, photograph it, and bag it as evidence."  
  
As they got in the car to head to the north end of the park, Dion said, "The groundskeeper's shed is closer, sir." When he was on duty, he always called his Uncle Steve either sir or Chief.  
  
Steve nodded and said, "I know, but Donovan's a young officer, and he called it in first. It will stroke his ego just a little to have us make the trip to see what he has. He'll remember this, and if you'd go to the guys at the garden shed, he'd remember that, too, in a very different light. In the long run, when he has to put up with something he doesn't like, how you treat him in moments like this will make a difference in how well he takes his lumps."  
  
Dion looked at Steve with admiration.  
  
"What?"  
  
"You do stuff like that without even thinking, don't you?"  
  
Steve frowned, "Don't you?"  
  
Dion laughed.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily pulled up to the Compton State Bank in a little blue Chevy. She looked at her passenger and said, "We're lucky you put it in a bank with twenty-four hour lobby service. We'd never be able to pull this off during regular business hours. As it is, you have ten minutes, no more."  
  
Moretti nodded.  
  
"That should be enough."  
  
"It has to be enough, Moretti. We've dyed your hair and shaved your moustache, but by now, your face and mine are out on the Web. Three years ago, all federally insured banks were required to link their security cameras into the FBI's facial recognition program."  
  
As she spoke, she plugged her laptop into the Chevy's power port.  
  
"It'll only take about seven minutes for the program to identify you, and another two for it to send up a red flag and have that red flag recognized and processed by a dispatcher. Average police response time in this neighborhood is six minutes. We will be gone five minutes before that. So you have ten minutes."  
  
Moretti grinned. The young woman's confidence was infectious. She planned everything down to the second, and always seemed so certain it would go off without a hitch. Moretti was actually beginning to think he might live to talk to his kid one day.  
  
"I'll be back in nine."  
  
  
  
  
  
"I'll be damned," Steve scratched his head. "So there were no snipers after all?"  
  
"It appears not, sir," Donovan said, nervous and proud all at once to be talking with Deputy Chief Sloan. The man had been a hero of his since he was a kid, and he'd never expected this day to really come.  
  
"And there are three more of these around the park, huh?"  
  
"Yes, sir. If you'd like to borrow my binoculars, you can see them all, but this one has the main control, as far as I can tell."  
  
"Explain, Donovan."  
  
Steve could clearly see what Donovan was talking about, but he could also see that the young man felt so proud of himself he was about to burst his buttons. Might as well let him think he was being helpful. He listened and nodded as he looked at the other tripods through Donovan's binoculars  
  
Donovan explained how the four tripods sitting around the park were linked to one another by infrared remote control. Each tripod was equipped with a laser pointer, some gears, some micro circuitry, and an electric motor. The one Donovan had discovered also had a small circuit board and a timer attached. It was programmed to control the other three tripods.  
  
"…and that's how she made it look like there were four snipers with weapons trained on you the whole time, sir."  
  
"Three, Donovan," Steve said. "When she approached me, one of the lights went out. She had me convinced she was one of the snipers."  
  
Looking at Dion, he said, "She's brilliant."  
  
"Actually, sir, it's a fairly simple setup. Any eighth grader with a class in basic programming and the right materials could do it."  
  
Steve nodded and smiled.  
  
"You're right, Donovan, but who would think to?"  
  
Donovan thought a moment, and said, "Not many people that I know of, sir."  
  
"That's why she's brilliant."  
  
Just as Donovan was about to respond, Commander Banks roared up and shouted out the window, "Chief, Moretti's been spotted at Compton State Bank. Units are on their way."  
  
Steve practically dove into the car, yelling, "Let's roll."  
  
As the car sped away, young Officer Donovan heard the Chief call back to him, "Good work, Donovan."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Come on, Moretti, come on."  
  
Emily tapped constantly at her keyboard. She had three windows open on her laptop. One was the FBI missing persons/most wanted page on Giancarlo Moretti. She had discovered a flaw in the automatic update function that had been written into the facial recognition program the banks tied into. As soon as a person was spotted, his web page was updated. It was a good idea to keep the information as current as practical, but you didn't always want the whole world to know immediately that you had found the bad guys. If the people who were trying to hide watched their own web page, they knew the moment the FBI was on to them, and had time to pull out before the feds could get into position. She'd have to bring the problem to Agent Wagner's attention, if she ever had the chance.  
  
The second window displayed computer transcriptions of the LAPD dispatchers' calls. She could monitor their conversations and know the moment the LAPD was notified of Moretti's presence in the bank. Of course, she had hacked into the system illegally, but considering all the other things she'd done lately, if the DA pressed charges, the maximum 18 months for the first offense would seem like nothing compared to what she'd get for kidnapping a federal witness, stealing an FBI van and whatnot.  
  
The third window showed the positions of all active LAPD units relative to her own location. There was still quite a little congregation of vehicles at the park. Tapping away at the keys, she highlighted the Chief's car with a gold star. She had, again illegally, tapped into the satellite that tracked their LoJack devices. A mapping program, her own little piece of active ingenuity, plotted the quickest route from her current location to her proposed destination. As the patrol cars shifted position, the route was constantly updated to avoid the cops. Because *all* cop cars were equipped with LoJacks, she could even spot the unmarked units from several blocks away. With a few keystrokes, she told the program to code the unmarked cars in blue and the black and whites in red.  
  
A blip on the missing persons/most wanted window surprised her. Looking at her watch, she saw it had only been five and a half minutes.  
  
"Too soon, too soon," she muttered.  
  
Troubled, she maximized the dispatch transcriptions window. Sooner than she expected, she saw mention of Moretti appear on that screen, and moments later, in the mapping window, the golden icon for the Chief's car started to move. It had only been seven minutes by now, thirty percent faster than she had expected. On the mapping screen, she counted seven cars speeding toward her.  
  
"Oh, hell."  
  
  
  
  
  
"ETA of the nearest unit is three minutes, Chief."  
  
"Let's hope they're in time."  
  
  
  
Emily watched as her escape route program changed constantly. The closer the cops got, the fewer routes the program had to choose from. She knew there was a fifteen second lag between her updates and their actual positions. She had about two minutes and forty-five seconds. She closed the missing persons/most wanted window, hoping that using less memory would let the mapping program function faster and give her just a fraction more lead-time.  
  
She piled her hair in a knot on top of her head and pulled a ball cap over it. Then she put some sunglasses on and popped a piece of bubblegum in her mouth. She made a decision, then. At fifteen seconds, she would go into the bank, and it would become a standoff. She'd let all the tellers out, of course, but she and Moretti would stay in there, holed up until the cops gassed them out or let them get away. If Moretti got out in time, they'd cruise away, and all the cops would see would be a kid getting a driving lesson before the morning's traffic got too heavy.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Two minutes, chief."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Traffic!" The word escaped Emily's lips before she knew she was going to speak it.  
  
"Damn!" She pounded the dash with a fist. She had forgotten to account for lighter Internet traffic in the early hours of the morning. With fewer users online, electronic messages moved faster. She'd been such an idiot.  
  
Rooting around in the back of the Chevy, she found a broad-brimmed straw hat for Moretti. Glancing again at the laptop, she noticed the cops were getting uncomfortably close.  
  
  
  
  
  
"First unit will be arriving on the scene in one minute, Chief. Our ETA is two fifteen."  
  
"Come on," Steve muttered, "Come on."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Come on, come on," Emily whispered hoarsely as she glanced back and forth between the clock on the computer screen and the door to the bank. She heard the wail of approaching sirens. She saw red and blue icons closing quickly, the gold star not far behind.  
  
The clock counted down.  
  
Forty-five seconds…  
  
She started the engine.  
  
Thirty…  
  
She put the car in gear.  
  
Twenty…  
  
Moretti came strolling out of the bank and froze when he heard the sirens.  
  
"MOVE!!!!!" She screamed at him from the open window of the car.  
  
He ran to the car and dove in the passenger's side. At that moment, the mapping program flashed a message.  
  
UNABLE TO AVOID OBSTACLES. MAPPING ROUTE WITH FEWEST OBSTACLES.  
  
Emily socked the straw hat on Moretti's head and said, "Sit up straight. Looked relaxed. You're teaching a kid to drive."  
  
She gave him the laptop, and considering what she said, told him, "On second thought, it might be ok to look scared shitless."  
  
Glancing at the mapping screen, she pulled smoothly into the left-hand lane and headed to the light. She saw no sense in taking off like a bat out of hell until they knew they were tagged.  
  
"You just gonna roll right by them, huh?"  
  
"That's the plan. Speeding away from a bank is guaranteed to draw their attention." Her stomach clenched and she blew an enormous bubble as the first black and white rolled by them.  
  
She hung a left and a right, and an unmarked car skidded around the turn.  
  
Looking at the mapping screen, she saw they were headed right for the gold star. Three blocks north, hang a right, and they would be in the clear. They got through the first two lights ok, but the next one was red. Moretti held his breath as the Chief's car approached. Emily blew a bubble as big as her head. The Chief's car slowed at the red light, then cruised through a break in the cross traffic. The fugitives started to breathe again, and grinned at each other.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Dammit!" Steve was getting frustrated. They'd missed Emily and Moretti by less than thirty seconds.  
  
"Did you see what they were driving," he asked the people in the bank. "Or which way they went?"  
  
"Chief," the security guard called to him, "I didn't see which way they went, but I did see what they were driving, and I noticed something odd about them."  
  
"What was that?" Steve was trying hard to reign in his temper. The man was trying to help, after all.  
  
"Well, I was looking out at the street, and there was this gorgeous redhead in a little blue Chevy, don't know the year, but it was an older model…"  
  
"Dion…"  
  
"I'm on it Chief."  
  
As the guard continued his story, Dion put out an APB on the vehicle…  
  
  
  
  
  
Several miles from the bank, Emily pulled into a fast-food drive through. She and Moretti ordered value meals, and gulped them down as they headed out to a more residential section of the city.  
  
"Em," Moretti had taken to using the nickname, and Emily didn't much mind.  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"They've got an APB out," he said, looking at the dispatch screen.  
  
"Figured it would happen soon. I saw the guard watching me."  
  
She pulled into a quiet little neighborhood, the kind of area the cops didn't feel the need to patrol much in the daylight because it was still relatively safe.  
  
"You got what you needed from your safety deposit box, right?"  
  
"Yep, got all the documentation, the entire family tree is right here." He held up a notebook and a long tube of the type that held blueprints. "Goes back over thirty years."  
  
"Very cool."  
  
She pulled into an alley and shut down her laptop. Nodding toward an SUV parked down the alley, she said, "Ever ride in one of those new Saudi cars?"  
  
"Nope. You?"  
  
"Can't say as I have. Like to try it?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
As she checked the Lasca over to be sure it didn't have a built in tracking system, Emily said, "I did some research at Carpoint.com a while back. Lasca means 'soldier.' These things are fully warranted for the first 150,000 miles. I guess the Saudi's think their cars are pretty tough."  
  
"They need to be," Moretti said, "to stand up to sand storms and desert heat, I guess."  
  
Declaring the vehicle free of tracking devices, Emily disarmed the anti- theft system and popped the locks. She and Moretti climbed in and headed to Santa Monica.  
  
  
  
"Well, she had this laptop out and she was tapping at it constantly. All of a sudden, she got real agitated. Then she put her hair up, covered it with a ball cap, put on some shades, and started the car. When the man came out, she put a hat on his head, too. I didn't see which way they went, because just then, the manager called me to tell me about the detain order for the man."  
  
"I see."  
  
"And she was chewing bubblegum and blowing bubbles big enough to float away on. She acted like she was sixteen."  
  
Steve and Cheryl looked at each other and blinked.  
  
"At the red light," Cheryl said.  
  
"Aughhh!" 


	11. Closer Call

(Chapter 11. Santa Monica, the house in Brentwood, other places in LA. March 6, 2033.)  
  
  
  
  
  
"Well," said Emily, now Elizabeth, "It's small, but it's clean. I think it will do us well. What do you say, Dad?"  
  
Emily had used her laptop and a portable printer to create new identities for herself and Moretti.  
  
John Morrissey, the former Giancarlo Moretti, shrugged amiably and said, "It don't matter to me, Betsy, as long as you like it."  
  
In reality, the place was not 'small.' It was tiny to the point that it would barely accommodate both of them and the clothing and supplies they had purchased after dumping the Chevy, but it was fully furnished with two bedrooms, a full bath, a kitchenette, and an ocean view. It was also in a neighborhood where she and her charge had not yet been spotted by the cops.  
  
Even though it was just a couple miles from the house her mother had given her, she was confident that she would never be spotted by anyone who might recognize her. She planned to make sure of that. She had robbed the makeup trailer at one of the studios in Hollywood last night before she met the Chief just to be sure she and Moretti could remain unrecognizable. She now wished she had used some of that makeup before going into the bank.  
  
Oh well, it was done and over.  
  
Smiling broadly at the building manager, Emily/Elizabeth extended her hand and said, "We'll take it. We can rent by the week, right?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sloan here," Steve said into his cell phone. He was still at the bank supervising the collection of evidence  
  
"Chief," Leigh Ann said, "You asked to be informed when they found that blue Chevy."  
  
Just then, Steve's call waiting beeped.  
  
"Yeah. Hold on a sec, Leigh Ann. I have another call."  
  
He clicked off with Leigh Ann and clicked on to the other call.  
  
"Sloan."  
  
"Hey, Uncle Steve."  
  
"Hi, Hannah. Tell me you have good news."  
  
"Sure do, Unk."  
  
Steve smiled at the nickname. It didn't matter that he was Deputy Chief of Police, Steve Sloan, in charge of the Valley Bureau, leading the largest manhunt LA had seen in decades. To the ever-casual Hannah, he was just Unk.  
  
"I've isolated the BioGen virus signature and programmed it into the immunometer. I can start tracking Emily any time you want."  
  
"Immunometer?"  
  
"My 'gadget,' Unk."  
  
"Oh, great. Hang on a bit and I'll get you her last known location. You can start there."  
  
He switched back to Leigh Ann and got the address where they'd found the Chevy.  
  
"…and by the way, Chief, less than a block away, someone reported a white Lasca stolen."  
  
"Call dispatch and have them put out an APB on the Lasca for me, Leigh Ann."  
  
"Way ahead of you, Chief."  
  
"You're too good to me Leigh Ann," Steve said with humor in his voice.  
  
"Don't I know it, sir."  
  
"Oh, and Leigh Ann?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Inform the officers at the scene that Hannah Wagner from UCLA will be arriving soon. Tell them to give her whatever she wants as long as it doesn't contaminate our evidence or put her in the line of fire."  
  
"Yes, sir. Does Agent Wagner know she's involved?"  
  
"Yes, but he doesn't approve. The only thing saving me is the fact that he knows I can't keep her out of trouble any better than he can."  
  
He heard Leigh Ann laugh.  
  
"She certainly has a mind of her own. I'll talk to the men right now, sir."  
  
"Thanks, Leigh Ann. Good bye."  
  
Steve switched back to Hannah and gave her the address where she would find the Chevy. He also reminded her to take her university ID in case the officers didn't know her.  
  
"Ok, Unk. Will you be there?"  
  
"Soon, Hannah."  
  
"Okie-dokie. See you then."  
  
  
  
  
  
After she hung up with the Chief, Leigh Ann made another call, this time from her cell phone.  
  
"Roger M. Gorini's office," said the secretary.  
  
"Tell him it's his little bird," Leigh Ann said. Mr. Gorini had picked her code name for her, and she rather liked it. It made her sound fair and sweet and delicate and beautiful, qualities she strived for but seldom fully achieved.  
  
"Yes, Leigh Ann?"  
  
"Emily's parents arrived last night, sir. They're staying at the Chief's house. The Chief met with Emily at the park at two thirty this morning, sir. She used some cheap electronic gear to convince him she had several snipers trained on him. He just missed her at Compton State Bank shortly after six this morning. He and Commander Banks actually drove right by her on their way to the bank."  
  
"I'll bet they were upset."  
  
"That doesn't even begin to cover it, sir. They just found the car she was using at the bank, and now they're looking for a white Lasca that was stolen less than a block from where she dumped the other car. Also, Hannah Wagner, is helping in the search, now, too."  
  
"Good work, Leigh Ann. Find out whatever you can about the girl's parents and about how Hannah is involved in the investigation."  
  
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily sat on the couch watching Moretti. He was watching the television in the way of a typically bored male. He'd watch a few seconds of something and flip the channel. Watch and flip, watch and flip. Finally frustrated, she spoke.  
  
"Hey, Moretti."  
  
"Wha'?"  
  
"I've been thinking. It might be easier for me to keep you alive if you could dodge the occasional bullet."  
  
Moretti laughed. "I've done more than my share of that over the years, kid. I've found it easier to avoid gettin' shot at."  
  
"I suppose."  
  
They lapsed into silence. He started to watch and flip, watch and flip again as she studied him some more. He was fat, flabby, and pasty-gray, and looked like nothing so much as a giant lump of blubber someone had flopped back in the chair. He was probably hypertensive and very likely beginning to develop heart disease.  
  
Moretti glanced at her and saw her staring again.  
  
"Wha'?"  
  
She sighed.  
  
"I was just thinking, Moretti. You're way too young to look so darned old."  
  
"What's it matter to you?"  
  
Shrugging, she said, "I'm not sure. We're bound to get bored waiting for the trial to start. Why not let me help you get in shape before then?"  
  
Moretti didn't merely laugh at the suggestion. He brayed like a jackass.  
  
"Kid, I'm sixty-two years old. What's the point of gettin' into shape now?"  
  
Emily thought a moment.  
  
"If you start taking care of yourself now, you've got forty, maybe fifty years left. It might give you time to make things right with your kid."  
  
Now it was Moretti's turn to be thoughtful.  
  
"I ain't gonna live on nothin' but rabbit food."  
  
"Eat what I cook, and you'll never know you're on a diet."  
  
He nodded.  
  
"I'm not gonna take up joggin' either."  
  
Emily shrugged. "I don't blame you. Many other exercises are a lot more fun. I like dancing, myself."  
  
Moretti smiled. "I always wanted to learn the tango. Ever since I saw DeNiro do it in Scent of a Woman."  
  
"That's an *old* movie."  
  
"Yeah, and a *good* one."  
  
Emily looked around the tiny living room and said, "If we put the coffee table on the couch and the TV on the recliner, there's room enough for me to teach you."  
  
"I can quit any time I want?"  
  
Emily scrunched up her face in thought.  
  
"I reserve the right to make you stick with it twenty-four more hours. It's too easy to just quit and say there's no going back. If you have to go twenty-four hours more, you might decide to stick with it after all."  
  
Moretti nodded and held out his hand. Emily shook it, and they both said, "Deal."  
  
  
  
  
  
By the time Steve arrived at the location of the Chevy's discovery, several officers were dusting for prints and Hannah was already busy with her device. She had arrived with company.  
  
"Liv, Keith, you shouldn't be here."  
  
"Steve," Keith said, "She's our daughter and we want her back safely. We won't compromise your investigation."  
  
"We're not going to interfere," Olivia added.  
  
"I realize that," Steve assured them as he tried to usher them away from the scene. "But just by being here, you cast the whole process into doubt. Believe it or not, I don't want to arrest Emily if it can be avoided, and I am trying really hard to convince everyone to give her the benefit of the doubt, but if I let you two get involved, my credibility is shot to hell. You can't help me here."  
  
Olivia faced him squarely and drew herself up to her full height. She had a way of carrying herself that made her imposing even at a diminutive five feet three inches.  
  
"Then tell us how we *can* help."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Full house." Emily laid her cards on the table.  
  
Moretti shook his head and said, "You're a little too lucky, you know that? If I wasn't dealin', I'd say you cheated. Looks like I wash dishes for the next two weeks, huh?"  
  
"If we're here that long, and you want my luck on your side, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah, I s'pose I do."  
  
Emily looked at her watch and said, "It's about lunch time. I better go get some groceries and ditch that Lasca. I can trust you to stay put?"  
  
"Sure thing," Moretti agreed jovially. "I ain't ready to die yet."  
  
She tossed him a new cell phone 'Betsy' and her 'dad' had purchased and activated earlier that morning.  
  
"No outgoing calls. This is for emergencies only. If I call you, watch the clock. We'll only get to use this once, and if we talk more than a minute, they can track us. Got it?"  
  
Now Moretti was more serious.  
  
"Understood."  
  
Emily went into her bedroom to get into costume and put on some makeup.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve settled back into the big leather armchair at 14783 West Dorothy Street in Brentwood. He knew the house belonged to Emily now, and he knew Steven had been living there for months, but as long as he lived, he would think of it as Olivia's place. Steven had agreed to move back into the beach house for a little while so Liv and Keith could use the place in Brentwood, and he was in the bedroom packing his things. As Liv and Keith had graciously offered use of the house for a command center, Officer Cioffi was setting up an easel with a map of the greater LA metropolitan area on it and marking confirmed sightings of Emily and Moretti with red pushpins, and places they were suspected of having been in blue. On the head of each pushpin was a small dot of paper on which Cioffi wrote the date and time of the sighting, hoping to track Emily's movements. There were not many blue pins, and even fewer red ones.  
  
Emily was very good at hiding.  
  
Steve had just placed a call to the number Emily had given him. All he had told her was they were still looking for her, she should turn herself in, her parents sent their love, and they were all worried about her. He was curious to know how she would check her messages knowing they would be monitoring all incoming calls to try and pinpoint her location.  
  
He had just finished explaining to Liv and Keith that the best way they could help find Emily would be to give him all the information they could about her. The more he knew about her interests and abilities, the easier it would be to narrow the search and the sooner they could track her down.  
  
He had a notepad in his lap, and was ready to begin taking notes when Steven came out of the bedroom.  
  
"I need to talk to you for a minute, Dad. In private."  
  
Already frustrated with the matter at hand, Steve was uncharacteristically short with his son.  
  
"Not now, Steven."  
  
After their recent conflict over the woman whose house his father had invaded, Steven was in no mood to be patient, understanding, or diplomatic.  
  
"Dammit, Dad! For once in your life…" The young man's voice cracked with emotion. "I wish you would put *me* first."  
  
Stunned at the outburst, especially because he had not recognized his son's agitated state, Steve looked from Liv to Keith and said in a puzzled tone, "Excuse me, I have to do this now."  
  
Keith nodded and Liv said, "Go ahead. We'll fix lunch while we wait."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Darn," Hannah muttered. "The trace is too diffuse. Well, at least we know she headed south."  
  
"In case you hadn't noticed, Ms. Wagner," one of the officers said derisively, "there's a hell of a lot of LA south of here."  
  
"Quite true, Officer Colombo, but now we have a pretty good reason to assume she's headed back into the city and not up San Francisco. Could you have said as much without my help?"  
  
"Probably not," the officer conceded, "but it still doesn't do us much good."  
  
Hannah had tracked Emily's viral profile from the western edge of the San Fernando Valley where she'd left the Chevy to the San Diego Freeway, where she'd headed south. Unfortunately, at the Ventura Freeway interchange, the cross-traffic had blown the spores (her name for the particles she used to track Emily) about to the extent that she could not tell if the fugitives had headed east toward Burbank or further south toward Santa Monica. She knew they probably hadn't headed west into the mountains. Dr. Stephens had told her one of the lingering effects of the BioGen virus was an extreme hypersensitivity to cold and it was still pretty chilly in the mountains this time of year.  
  
She bade goodbye to the officers and headed to Emily's house. Her Uncle Steve had told her to meet him there when he had left the scene with Mr. and Dr. Stephens. She intended to share her findings and see if she could help make any sense out of the information that had been collected so far.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve entered the bedroom and sat on the bed with a sigh. Not knowing what to say, he chose to be silent for now. Perhaps his son would oblige by starting the conversation. When several minutes passed without a word between them, Steve decided he needed to open up first.  
  
"If I had been a better father, I could have told you you were out of line out there."  
  
"You were a good father."  
  
"Bull. I dropped in once in a while, and signed a few report cards, but I let your mom and your granddad raise you."  
  
His son didn't argue, but, hell, Steve hadn't expected him to. He hadn't expected his confession to be greeted with more stony silence, either, though. It was plain that Steven wasn't going to make this easy on him, but he knew he deserved no better. He took it upon himself again to break the silence.  
  
"Son, *both* of us have worked too hard to overcome *my* mistakes to throw it all away now just because things are getting a little crazy."  
  
Still nothing. Steve's father had often complained of him being taciturn when he was angry or hurting, but even at his worst he had nothing on his own offspring. Apparently, some genetic traits became more pronounced with successive generations.  
  
He rose and moved to stand behind Steven as he took his clothes out of the dresser. Meeting the young man's gaze in the mirror, he said, "Dammit, Steven, I know that most of your life I was too busy to hear you when you tried to tell me what you needed, but I heard you today. You had to yell to get my attention, but I heard you. Will you please talk to me now?"  
  
Emotion tightened in Steve's chest as he waited for what seemed like forever for a reply. He had been a lousy father when his son was younger, and he hadn't even realized it until fourteen-year-old Steven landed in jail on drug- and gang-related charges. All the signs had been there, and Steve had failed to see them. After Steven was placed on probation and released to his custody, Steve had made some major changes in his life, and with a lot of hard work, patience, and love, he had finally gotten to know his son. When he'd had his heart attack, their relationship had deepened and strengthened as Steven had spent much of his spare time helping his father with his recovery. They had finally found each other.  
  
And now Steve was afraid they were about to lose each other all over again.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily drove the Lasca all the way to Long Beach and ditched it about six blocks from the Transit Mall Metro stop. Then she took the Blue Line to downtown LA, smiling all the way as she remembered the infamous 'Blue Line' of the Penn State hockey team. She'd been an avid fan and active member of the hockey club boosters during her days at PSU, and the only reason she hadn't actually joined the team was the lack of appropriate locker room facilities for her on their road games. She still thought she would have been a hell of a goalie. In Downtown LA, she caught a bus to Ralph's Supermarket near the intersection of Wilshire Boulevard and Bundy Avenue.  
  
She strolled through the market casually, choosing her groceries with care, confident that the hat, glasses, makeup, and new hairdo she wore would sufficiently disguise her even from the FBI's facial recognition program, if the store was linked into it. After all, nobody was looking for a farsighted black woman with a long, blond weave. Noting the number of Muslim women in the store, she decided to wear a veil if she needed to go shopping here again. She took the time to buy enough groceries to last the month.  
  
While she was in line at the register, she 'accidentally' bumped into the woman ahead of her and stole her cell phone to call the answering service she had asked the Chief to use to contact her. She had promised to check it daily, and, like her mother, she strived to be as good as her word.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steven finally turned to face his dad.  
  
"I know you did the best you could, Pops…"  
  
Steve found the moniker reassuring. Steven only called him Pops when he wanted to be affectionate.  
  
"…and I forgave you a long time ago. I know this has been difficult for you, and I should be a little more patient, but…" The young man had to pause to gain control of himself. "I love her, Pops, and I'm scared."  
  
"I see," was all Steve could bring himself to say. He knew there was no way on God's good green earth right now that he could tell his son he had to stop loving Emily. All he could do was pray that the effort he was making now would make the truth easier on his son when it did come out.  
  
"I don't think you do, but that's ok. I really wanted to talk to you about something else, sort of."  
  
"And what might that be, son?"  
  
"Well, I wanted to apologize for the way I reacted when you told me about what Emmy had done. You don't know her the way I do, and you had every right to worry about Uncle Jess. But, Dad, I'm telling you, she'd die before she let anything happen to Jess or Moretti. Knowing that, I want to help you get her back safely."  
  
Steve nodded.  
  
"We'll talk about Emily in a minute. First, I need to know, are we ok again?"  
  
Steven grinned, tapped his temple and said, "We were never 'ok.' It runs in the family, Pops. Just look at Granddad."  
  
Steve laughed.  
  
Steven patted his dad's shoulder and said, "And I'm not angry anymore, either."  
  
  
  
  
  
As she turned from Montana Avenue on to South Bundy, Hannah thought it would be a good idea to compare her readings on the immunometer as she approached Emily's house with those she had gotten from the Chevy and along the San Diego Freeway. The more readings she had, the easier it would be to fix the time when Emily passed through a given area and the better she could estimate how long she'd been there. When she reached over to the seat beside her and switched on the device, it went crazy.  
  
'That's odd,' thought Hannah, 'these readings are even stronger than the ones at the Chevy.' She looked closer. "That's *really* odd," she muttered to herself. "It's almost as if…"  
  
"Omigod!" She interrupted herself. "She's here!"  
  
Hannah pulled over hastily and flipped open her cell phone. She speed dialed her uncle's cell number, and when he answered, she was talking even before he could finish saying "Sloan here."  
  
"Uncle Steve, get every cop you can spare into Santa Monica *now*."  
  
"Hannah? Honey, why? What do you have?"  
  
"I turned on the immunometer, just to get a base reading, and it freaked out. I'm about six blocks from Emily's house, and from these readings, she's got to be close."  
  
"Are you sure? She's been living in this area since September"  
  
"Unk, if this were a Geiger counter, we would be at ground zero at the moment of a nuclear explosion. It's way too much for it to be residual traces."  
  
"Damn!" Steve muttered. "I have another call, Hannah. Hold on."  
  
"But Unk--"  
  
"Sloan here."  
  
"Chief, it's Leigh Ann. They found the Lasca. It's in Long Beach."  
  
Steve thought for just a second. "Patch me through to the men at the scene, but stay on the line with us."  
  
It took only a moment, and he had only one question.  
  
"Is the engine still warm?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Just answer the question, officer."  
  
"No, sir."  
  
Steve made a split second decision. He wasn't totally comfortable with new technology. It had taken him years to learn to effectively use a computer and he'd never learned to program a VCR, but he trusted Hannah's judgment. This was only the second break they'd had, and he'd be damned if he'd blow it this time.  
  
"Ok. Stay there, secure the scene, and begin processing. Sloan out."  
  
The officers signed out.  
  
"Leigh Ann."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Get every available unit in the Valley Bureau into Santa Monica *now*."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Hannah *swears* Emily's here, somewhere within a couple miles of her house in Brentwood, 14783 West Dorothy. I want to saturate the area with cops. Uniform, undercover, everyone."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Leigh Ann hung up and Steve went back to Hannah.  
  
"Hannah, honey, get to Emily's house. It's our command post. I have every available officer on the way now."  
  
"Ok, Unk, and thanks for believing in me."  
  
  
  
  
  
Leigh Ann made another call to Gorini.  
  
"They've found the Lasca in Long Beach, sir, but the Chief has every available officer in Santa Monica."  
  
"Find out why, Leigh Ann."  
  
"I'll do my best, sir."  
  
"Very good, Leigh Ann. Oh, and Leigh Ann?"  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"From now on, you report to me *before* you report to the Chief. Understood?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily spotted a black and white as she strolled down Wilshire Boulevard toward the little apartment she had rented, and something about it made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It was moving much too slowly. The cops were looking for something. When she saw them stop, and question a redheaded woman roller-skating down the sidewalk, her stomach lurched into her throat. When a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, and she turned to look into the face of Charles Donovan, one of the officers she had often seen around the station before she went on the run, it nearly leaped out and ran screaming down the street without her. When the young officer showed her a photo of herself, a distant part of her brain was amused to discover that she was already so frightened it couldn't get worse.  
  
"You seen this woman?"  
  
"No, mon," she gave him her best Jamaican accent. "What she do, mon?"  
  
"Nothing that we know of, but she's wanted for questioning in a kidnapping. If you see her, get in touch, ok?"  
  
"Sure ting, mon."  
  
Emily didn't question what she knew to be the standard police story when they were looking for a fugitive and didn't want to alarm the population. To question would be to draw attention, and that was the last thing she needed now.  
  
As the cops slowly moved away, she flipped out the stolen cell phone and called Moretti. The damned thing was supposed to be for emergencies only, and she certainly hadn't expected an emergency just yet.  
  
"We got trouble. Don't talk, listen. Meet me at the bus stop at Colorado and Ocean in thirty minutes. Bring our clothes, my computer, my makeup kit, and the cash. Come disguised, and ditch the phone."  
  
  
  
  
  
Keith was pacing, with only a slight limp from his prosthetic legs, Steve noticed; and Liv was staring out the window as Cioffi marked the readings Steve called out to him on a map. They'd been at it for over an hour, Steve on the cell phone with Hannah as she rode around the neighborhood in a patrol car taking readings. There were several spots of high concentration in the area, indicating that Emily had stopped one place or another, but nothing to indicate that she was in the immediate vicinity when they were actually looking there. For some reason, there were large gaps between the areas of high readings, making her path impossible to trace.  
  
Steven was studying the map, looking for places where Emily might hang out. He didn't recognize anything near any of the areas of highest concentration.  
  
Hannah was on her second circuit of the search grid.  
  
"I dunno, Unk," she said. "The readings are beginning to fade now. Maybe they were just residual traces, concentrated because she lived here so long. Maybe I have the immunometer calibrated too high."  
  
Steve stifled a curse, and chose instead to reassure his goddaughter.  
  
"I don't believe that any more than you do, Hannah. She was here, and we both know it. That's why the readings were initially so high and are beginning to fade. If they were just residuals, they wouldn't have been so strong, and they wouldn't be fading so rapidly."  
  
"You really think so, Unk?"  
  
"I know so, sweetie, and so do you. You found her, Hannah, we just didn't see her this time. Come on back to the house and we'll see about lunch."  
  
"Ok, Unk. See you soon."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Mother of God" Moretti exclaimed as he climbed in the vehicle Emily had appropriated. "I've never seen so many cops in my life."  
  
Em smiled and said, "How does it feel to be a hot commodity?"  
  
"A lot like wearin' a target on your chest."  
  
Emily sighed as she settled back in the Toyota Tundra. The vehicle was so old, it didn't even have the capacity to support a modern theft deterrent or tracking system. She was headed north, back to the Valley, with Moretti at her side, grumbling away.  
  
"Why don't we just go to Mexico? LAPD don't go into Mexico. We should be there."  
  
Frustrated, she popped Moretti along side the head.  
  
"Northern Mexico had been a friggin' *war zone* since the droughts back in the twenties. Wouldn't it be a *fine* damn thing if one of the factions held us hostage? We wouldn't know who was paying the ransom until we saw them, *if* our abductors didn't take the money and kill us *anyway*. And who's to say the people who ransomed us wouldn't meet their demands just to have the privilege of killing us themselves?"  
  
Moretti pouted.  
  
"I'm scared, ok? You didn't have to hit me."  
  
Emily softened her tone.  
  
"I'm sorry, Moretti. I'm scared, too. I don't know what went wrong, but they shouldn't have found us so easily. They have something we don't know about. I need to do some research."  
  
She headed south on the San Diego Freeway planning to take the Artesia/Redondo Beach Freeway out to Anaheim. Surely, they could lay low there for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve ordered Dion and Captain Cioffi to keep their men canvassing the area. The men were to report *everything* to Dion and Cioffi who would report to Cheryl. She would sort through the information and report what was relevant to Steve at the house in Brentwood. They had all finally had lunch. Jesse and Amanda had shown up when they got off work, and Mark had insisted that Maribeth drive him over when she went in to the hospital. Cheryl would be reporting in every hour or so, and Steve was finally ready to get down to business with Liv and Keith.  
  
  
  
  
  
Officer Charles Donovan stopped yet another pedestrian and flashed the picture of Lieutenant Stephens, asking the young surfer if he had seen her.  
  
"No, dude, but I wish I had. She's one foxy chick!"  
  
Donovan smiled. "I guess she is."  
  
"Woah, yeah, dude. Awesome eyes."  
  
"Contact the police if you spot her, ok?"  
  
"Sure, maybe after I make a little *contact* with her myself."  
  
Shaking his head at the surfer's shameless lust, Donovan studied the picture.  
  
She did have remarkable eyes.  
  
Lovely green-gold eyes.  
  
He'd seen those eyes earlier today, behind thick glasses.  
  
Donovan froze for a moment. Then he seized his radio and called his captain. 


	12. What Makes Her Tick

(Chapter 12. The house in Brentwood, a cruddy motel in Anaheim, other places in and around LA. March 6, 2033.)  
  
  
  
  
  
Captain Bentley-Wagner pulled up beside Donovan and said, "Get in, Officer. Chief Sloan wants to talk to you ASAP."  
  
Charles gulped, and climbed in. This was his worst nightmare. He had spoken to the suspect, looked her in the eye, even had his hand on her shoulder, and hadn't known it. He'd blown it big time. He'd had the opportunity to personally put an end to one of the biggest manhunts in the history of Los Angeles, and he'd blown it. Sure, as soon as he'd become aware of the situation, he'd called it in, and the captain had ordered everyone to be on the lookout for the tall, blonde, Jamaican woman, but it had been too little, to late. Now, Chief Sloan, his hero since the day he'd saved his mother in a bank robbery fifteen years ago, was personally going to fire him.  
  
"You're pretty quiet, kid," the Captain said.  
  
"I know I'm in deep trouble, sir." Looking desperately at his superior, he begged, "You know the Chief, sir. I would never dream of asking you to intervene on my behalf, but do you think there's anything I can do to save my job?"  
  
Dion chuckled and said, "You could tell him you don't have the legs for a meter-maid's mini-skirt."  
  
At the young man's horrified gasp, Dion broke into a grin and reassured him.  
  
"Look, son, the Chief is a reasonable guy. I've known him just over thirty years now, and I'm pretty sure he just wants more information. Maybe he'll have you sit down with a sketch artist. He's not going to fire you."  
  
Donovan seemed to breathe easier after that, and some of the color returned to his face, but he still appeared to be worried.  
  
  
  
  
  
As Steven showed Donovan and the sketch artist into the den, Steve looked at Dion and said, "He seems pretty shook up."  
  
Dion laughed and said, "You've been his hero since he was a kid, Chief. Everybody at the precinct knows it. You saved his mom in a bank robbery years ago, and that day he decided to become a cop. When I picked him up to bring him here, he was sure you were going to fire him."  
  
Steve laughed, and said, "Emily called me a hero the day I interviewed her. Hope this kid doesn't prove to be as much trouble."  
  
Dion said, "I don't know about trouble, but give him some time, and he could be just as good a cop."  
  
Liv said, "Let me take him a cup of tea. It might calm him down. Then maybe we can finally get started."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily and Moretti were settled in a roach motel somewhere between Anaheim and Santa Ana. They had one cruddy room, two beds, a hotplate-minifridge- microwave unit, and no ocean view. Both were unhappy with the situation, but they knew it was the best place to hide out for the time being. Anyone who knew Em, knew she wasn't the type to choose a place like this, and Moretti, with his seedy looks and suspicious nature fit right into the neighborhood.  
  
On the way to Anaheim, they'd made an excursion to La Mirada where Emily had placed a call from a pay phone to the number she had given the Chief. He hadn't said much, just that her folks were worried. Then they'd ditched the Tundra and stolen a nondescript little two-door Pontiac with dysfunctional automatic seatbelts and bad brakes. Less than a mile away, they'd dumped the Pontiac in favor of a Volkswagen Beetle III, so called because it was the third time the design had been brought into service.  
  
They'd dumped the Beetle III somewhere between Fullerton and Anaheim, walked on to a cheesy-looking used car lot, and using new fake IDs so they wouldn't be associated with Elizabeth and John Morrissey from Santa Monica, paid eight thousand cash for a big, cream-colored LTD. After dropping Moretti at the motel, Emily had changed her disguise to become the kind of woman who didn't mind staying in the kind of motel where certain special clients paid by the hour. Then she drove back to La Mirada and called her contact from a different phone booth.  
  
"They're looking for a black woman, blond hair, Jamaican accent. Does that make any sense to you?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Care to explain it to me?"  
  
"No, sir."  
  
"Did you know Hannah Wagner is involved in the search?"  
  
"No, sir. Thank you for telling me, sir. What does she do for a living, sir?"  
  
"She's a Ph.D. candidate in microbiology at UCLA. Why?"  
  
"Might help me figure out what they're doing to find me, sir. Sir?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"Have you found a safe house for us?"  
  
"No. Even if I did, I don't know who I could trust to guard it. Wherever you are, stay there."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
Olivia sat the cup of tea down beside the young man, and as she turned to go, he shouted, "Wait!"  
  
Liv turned and said, "Is there something else I can do for you, Officer?"  
  
When he saw that his shout had interrupted the meeting Agent Wagner, Commander Banks, and Captains Cioffi and Bentley-Wagner were having in the opposite corner of the den, he apologized before pointing at the sketch artist and telling Liv, "Look at him."  
  
Olivia turned toward the artist and smiled confusedly.  
  
"The eyes," Donovan said, "she had the same eyes. That's what gave her away. Nobody else has eyes like that. Make sure you get the eyes right."  
  
Olivia sat patiently for several minutes while the artist took special care to 'get the eyes right.' Finally, Steve came and got her, saying, "Liv, we need you out here now."  
  
  
  
  
  
Someone had prepared a tea tray, and Olivia helped herself to a cup as Steve, Steven, Officer Cioffi, and Keith got settled. She, Keith, and Steven were supposed provide background information on Emily while Mark, Amanda, and Jess tried to make sense of the information they had already gathered. Once Olivia, Keith, and Steven had provided all the information they could, they would all settle down at the table and try to sift through it again, fit it with what had been collected previously, and figure out what Emily was going to do next.  
  
Steve started the discussion.  
  
"Keith, Liv," he paused before including his son, "Steven. The three of you are the only people in LA who actually know Emily. I need you to tell me anything and everything you can about her. I want to know about her hobbies, interests, likes and dislikes, special skills, food and medication allergies, absolutely everything. Cioffi here, and a few other trusted people, will take that information and try to create a profile of Emily. If we can figure out what makes her tick, we might be able to predict what she might do and where she might go." Looking at his former lover, he said, "Liv why don't you begin?"  
  
Olivia glanced at Keith for reassurance, and he nodded, indicating that it would be ok for her to share private details about her family with the police in order to help get her daughter back safely. She took several deep breaths, which Steve recognized immediately as a yoga technique, and he wondered whether Emily's current or past shenanigans were the cause of Olivia's stress.  
  
"I told you when you called, Steve, Emily is a good girl, and she plays by the rules. I know that as surely as I know my own name, but beyond that, I don't know my own daughter as well as I probably should. We've never had an easy relationship."  
  
She chewed her bottom lip for a moment, and Steve asked her to elaborate.  
  
Looking at Keith, she got another nod and he said, "Go on, O. It might help them find her."  
  
She nodded and continued.  
  
"We knew early on that Emmy was special. She was just so smart, Steve! She could actually read by the time she was two. We started her in kindergarten when she was three. She was big enough, smart enough, and mature enough, the other kids had no idea she was two years younger.  
  
"By the time she was twelve years old, I couldn't teach her anything."  
  
Steve laughed lightly and said, "I remember the feeling all too well."  
  
Steven blushed slightly, but shared his father's amusement. He could vaguely recall the unpleasant know-it-all he had been in his adolescence.  
  
Liv shook her head and said, "You've got it all wrong, Steve. I don't mean that teenage 'I have all the answers already' thing, though she certainly had that attitude in spades. She was really that smart. By the time she was in sixth grade, I had taught her everything I knew about everything I knew anything about. I didn't *know* anything else to teach her. She had completely surpassed the limits of my knowledge, and I couldn't keep up with her any more. It kind of scared me. I would be talking to this child and things would come out of her mouth that were completely beyond my comprehension.  
  
"One day when she was about twelve, she asked me, 'Mom, why are you afraid of me?' I tried to convince her I wasn't, but she could see through me like glass. After that day, we never *really* talked anymore."  
  
Olivia poured everyone some more tea, then excused herself to the restroom. When she returned, her nose and eyes were red and she was sniffling, but no one commented that she had clearly been crying. She took up her narrative right where she had left off as if there had been no interruption at all.  
  
"The school had her tested, and they ended up calling in some expert from a private facility out of state. They declared her a 'universal genius'. She's beyond joining Mensa. She's up there with da Vinci, Hypatia, Stephen Hawking, and Isaac Newton. When she was eighteen, she was believed to be one of the twenty-five smartest people in the world."  
  
"I see," Steve said. "At the park, when we discovered the setup with the lasers, I told Dion she was brilliant, but I had no idea. What else can you tell me?"  
  
"She was a mischievous child, very interested in computers. When she was fifteen, she was arrested on half a dozen counts of hacking into secure government systems. It wasn't the first time she'd been caught…exploring…places she wasn't supposed to be in cyberspace, but this time, it was serious. When the judge asked why she did it, she said she was bored and needed a challenge. She also told him she was highly disappointed in the Federal Government's security measures. She had expected hacking into their systems to be harder. He gave her five *thousand* hours of community service and assigned her to work for the Federal Government testing and improving the security for their systems.  
  
"She developed her own programming language before she was legal to drive. It streamlined programming and applications to the point where computers running her system and software were about seventy percent faster than anything else on the market. Microsoft bought her out for one hundred million dollars. They were glad to pay it, too, because she'd written a conversion program that, when properly installed, would let her software run on Microsoft operating systems much faster and with fewer errors than Microsoft's own programs. The boys at Microsoft couldn't figure any of it out, but they realized she could bankrupt them in just a year or two if they let her go unchecked.  
  
"Purely out of spite, she refused to tell them how it worked, but they paid for it anyway because they felt so threatened by it. The sale contract states that if they ever wish to sell the technology, she gets the right of first refusal, and if she wants it when they sell, they have to sell it back to her for just the hundred million they originally paid."  
  
"Why did she sell it," Steven asked.  
  
Keith laughed. "She said programming using her language was too easy. It bored her. Have you ever heard the expression 'a mile wide and a foot deep'?"  
  
Steve nodded. "Sort of like 'a Jack of all trades and a master of none', right?"  
  
"Exactly," Keith confirmed. "That's our Em. She's interested in everything, but devoted to almost nothing."  
  
"But," Olivia explained, "because she's so smart, she masters everything quickly."  
  
"What did she do with the money," Steven wanted to know.  
  
"Squandered a lot of it," Olivia said. "The rest she turned over to Meyer Goldstein. He's been managing it, along with my accounts, for about ten years now. Emmy takes an allowance, and the rest, Meyer invests in various charitable projects."  
  
"Like the LA Promise Foundation," Steve said.  
  
"Yep. But one of her pet projects is a school for the gifted and talented. She wants to create a place where the best and brightest will be challenged."  
  
"I see," Steve said. "Trying to improve the lot of others like her."  
  
"Exactly."  
  
Keith took over here. "She's a mathematical genius, Steve, and has made discoveries and developed theorems that nobody I know can understand, not that *that's* saying much. She composed a two-hour opera at the age of four. People at the Julliard School of Music said it rivaled anything Mozart had ever produced. By the age of sixteen, she spoke, read, wrote, and could translate between about forty languages, including ancient Greek and Latin, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Russian, Hebrew, several African tribal languages, all the Romance languages, all the Germanic languages, Basque, Mixteca, Guaraní, Nauhautl, and only God himself knows what else. I have to admit, I am a lot smarter now that I was thirty years ago. There's no way I could ever hope to know as much as Emmy does, but raising a prodigy forces you to educate yourself beyond anything you'd ever imagine."  
  
"She's very artistic," Liv noted. "She can draw, paint, sculpt, write, sing, dance, play about twenty different instruments, and when it comes to acting, she's a virtual chameleon. In the third grade, she did a project on the 'Immigrant Experience in America from the Pilgrims to the 21st Century' and it stuck with her. She's developed about, oh, forty or fifty characters out of that and she used to do a stand-up routine at Boots based on them. Each of them has a history, a family, and goals. They're almost real people, and she could draw you a family tree and write the biography of any one of them on demand."  
  
"So," Steve said, "We're looking for any one of forty or fifty different six-foot-tall females?"  
  
"Ohhhh, no," Liv corrected. "Most of them are tall females, yes, but Yervant is an Armenian hunchback teenage boy who stands less than five and a half feet tall, and Nen is a forty-year old Egyptian paraplegic engineer who's wife took the kids and went back to Egypt after the car accident that paralyzed him. There are others but the point is, she can become any of those people at the drop of a hat."  
  
"Come on, Liv," Steve said in disbelief. "She can't make herself shorter."  
  
"No, but she has this way of carrying herself…"  
  
Keith interrupted.  
  
"You know how O can stand up straight, give you *that look* and it scares the beans outta you?"  
  
"Yeah…" Steve reluctantly agreed, unwilling to admit that the tiny woman could still strike terror in his heart with just a look.  
  
"Well, you know she's nothing to be afraid of, but she still looks larger than life. It's intimidating as all hell, right?"  
  
"Uh-huh."  
  
Olivia blushed.  
  
"Emmy can do the same kind of thing, but she can do more than get scary, and she can do it whenever she wants, not just when she's peeved."  
  
"Ok," Cioffi interrupted, "so is it safe to assume that she can do anything she pleases?"  
  
Keith and Olivia looked at each other for a moment.  
  
Nodding, they looked at Steve and Cioffi in unison and said, "Yeah."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Em."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Why you a cop?"  
  
"Dunno. Why you a crook?"  
  
"Family business. Really, Em, what makes someone decide to be a cop? It's a helluva lot more dangerous than most jobs, and a lot harder than bein' a crook."  
  
"What makes you think it's harder than being a crook?"  
  
"Too damn many rules, and you still haven't answered my question."  
  
Emily laughed.  
  
"I think the rules are part of the reason I became a cop, Moretti."  
  
"Explain."  
  
"Well, when I was a kid, I spent a lot of time getting in trouble. I was sentenced to death when I was fifteen…"  
  
  
  
  
  
"With all her skills, why did she become a cop," Steve asked.  
  
Keith laughed, but it was more a sound of disgust than of humor. "That's a good story," he said. His tone made it clear that he would not enjoy telling it.  
  
"Until she was about sixteen, Emmy spent most of her time dancing around the edges of the law. O told you about the hacking charges, but what she didn't tell you was that she managed to break into files on government agencies and programs that didn't officially exist. She was also up on espionage charges."  
  
"At fifteen?"  
  
Keith nodded.  
  
Steve let out a low whistle.  
  
"Before then, she'd been tried for and acquitted of a number of things from securities fraud to embezzlement to money laundering to rigging the state lottery," Keith continued. "To this day, I'm not sure what she did and didn't do. It was driving the cops nuts and just plain wearing out O and me. We were sick to death of the whole thing and didn't know what to do about it."  
  
"It is so hard when your child is so smart that you can't even tell when she's getting into trouble," Olivia interjected, still clearly frustrated with her challenging child.  
  
"Unbelievably hard," Keith agreed. "Well, when she was fifteen, she got convicted of six charges of hacking into government systems. Some of the stuff she got into was pretty serious, and that's why they charged her with espionage as well. The judge had to appoint someone from the CIA to be her guardian, in loco parentis, because O and I didn't have the clearance to know about some of the stuff she'd gotten herself into."  
  
"It was a terrifying time, Steve," Olivia said. "Even Emmy got scared when she realized that espionage charges could carry the death penalty. She *was* only fifteen, but they tried her as an adult because of her intellectual capabilities. The DA argued she had a capacity for understanding the consequences of her actions that surpassed that of any adult, and she proceeded to hack into CIA and NSA systems anyway."  
  
"My God," was all Steve could say.  
  
"She was convicted on all counts. I told you about the community service for the hacking charges, but the judge gave her the death penalty for the espionage and then commuted the sentence because she was so young, and as far as he could tell, while she may have accessed the information and studied it, she hadn't used it for any personal gain or any anti-American activities."  
  
"They gave her the death penalty?" Steve was astounded. "They gave a *fifteen-year-old girl* the death penalty?" He was bordering on outrage.  
  
"Yeah, Steve," Liv told him. "The judge told us it was just to prove a point, but much later, Keith and I found out there was a lot more to it than that. He also made it clear that he would personally see to it that it would be the last break anyone would ever cut her. Keith and I were actually grateful. We were at wit's end with her, and the judge had provided a way for us to…handle her behavior."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
Liv shrugged, stood up, refilled her teacup, and moved over to the window.  
  
"We sent her away," she said softly. "*I* sent her away, and she's never forgiven me."  
  
"Olivia," Keith said. "It may have been your idea, but I agreed with it whole heartedly. We thought it was the best thing we could do for her."  
  
Looking back at her husband with tears in her eyes, Liv said, "They were *using* her, Keith. I know she was guilty as sin, but that whole trial was just a sham. They didn't want to convict her and *punish* her. They wanted to *use* her. They convinced me to send her away to Washington. They said there were people there who could challenge her, but really they just wanted to use her mind in their *nasty* business…"  
  
Olivia broke off, and wept for several moments. She eventually resumed, albeit in an unsteady voice. "I wanted Emmy to cut a deal, but she refused, convinced that she could get herself off. I asked the DA if there was any way the government could help us. I wanted to know if there were any schools for kids like Emmy who were so smart our regular schools and colleges couldn't challenge them. He said he'd talk to the judge and see if they could think of something. I was…"  
  
Keith interrupted, "*We*, Olivia." Looking at Steve he said, "*We* were too worried or too foolish to see what they were doing. When the DA assured us everything would be ok, we were grateful. We didn't know they were going to take our child away from us for three whole years. Those deceitful bastards tried to turn her into one of *them*."  
  
  
  
  
  
"And at my mom's request, I was sent to Washington, D.C. to do my community service," Emily explained. "I'd never been away from home for more than a couple of days before, and in Washington, everyone knew why I was there and they watched me like hawks. I was closely supervised when I was working and kept under guard when I wasn't. Child labor laws at the time meant I could only work 29 hours a week. I spent over three years in Washington. I even had to ask permission to go to the bathroom."  
  
"That's harsh," Moretti sympathized.  
  
"I hated my mother for it. I only got to come home two weeks a year, in June when school let out and in December for Christmas, and I refused to talk to her."  
  
Moretti looked over at the young woman and saw tears sliding down her face.  
  
"Emily, your mother loved you. She did that to keep you out of trouble. From what you said, it sounds like you were more than she and your dad could handle."  
  
Emmy nodded. "I know, but it still hurts." She took a deep breath and continued. "Anyway, when I wasn't doing community service, I was being 'tutored' by some of the smartest and most talented people in the country. I was having the time of my life, finally being among people who could challenge me. What I didn't realize at first was that some of the little 'assignments' they gave me were actually CIA projects. They had me inventing bombs and biological weapons, and I naively thought I was just working on theory."  
  
Emily choked up. She was clearly having trouble going on. After a time, she spoke again. Her voice was desolate.  
  
"Israel used technology *I* developed to finally exterminate the Palestinians, and I created an anti-virus that they reverse-engineered into the China virus that decimated the population of Taiwan, making it easy for the Chinese to roll in and take over. I was just playing around, exercising my mind, and having fun with new ideas. Until I saw it on the news, I never dreamed anyone would actually *use* what I thought up to *kill* somebody. The blood of millions of people is still on my hands."  
  
Emily rose and went to look out the window. She didn't make a sound for a long time, but Moretti could see her shoulders tremble with weeping.  
  
  
  
  
  
"In June of 2020," Keith remembered, "Emmy and I were watching the news when they showed the end of the West Bank War. If you remember, nobody had heard of the electron bomb before then. Well, about ten seconds into the story, Emmy started screaming. At first, I didn't understand what she was saying. She just kept screaming, 'I did that. Oh, God, Daddy, I made that happen.' I couldn't calm her down. O had to sedate her. Olivia and I watched the eleven o'clock news, and they explained how an electron bomb worked. Emmy woke up, wandered into the living room, saw the report, and said, 'I was hoping it was just a nightmare.' Then she told us how months before, she and one of her 'tutors' in D.C. had been discussing various theories for ways to harness electrons for uses other than electricity. When she saw the pictures, she'd known right away what had killed all those people."  
  
Steven laughed sarcastically. "You're telling us *Emmy* invented the electron bomb? That's ludicrous."  
  
Keith looked at him and said, "Kid, it's the God's honest truth."  
  
"It's a *lie*." Turning to Steve, the young man hotly defended his lover. "Dad, Em is strong, tough, smart, and she *will* defend herself, but she's a complete pacifist. She would never, ever be involved in creating weapons of mass destruction."  
  
Liv reentered the conversation to clarify matters.  
  
"Why do you think she became a pacifist? Fifteen years ago, when she went to Washington, she was brilliant, creative, and pathologically naive. They filled her full of crap about how her theories could be used for mining, construction, and space exploration, and she believed them. The China virus that was used in Taiwan was developed from a broad-spectrum anti- viral medication Emmy developed for the CDC. She was just doing it for fun, to test herself and her abilities. She was a brilliant, innocent kid with no knowledge of how the real world works. They lied to her, and she *believed* them. Now she blames herself for all those people dying, and she blames me for making her go to D.C."  
  
  
  
  
  
Turning from the window, Emily continued her story. "I learned so much about so many things while I was in Washington. I learned about the difference between theory and practice. I learned that the United States wasn't always the good guy in international conflicts. I learned to be careful whom I trust, and I learned to play by the rules, because I'd gotten screwed too badly by too many other people who didn't."  
  
"Ok, but why'd you become a cop?"  
  
Emmy chuckled.  
  
"Family business. My daddy was a deputy for years, and my Uncle Kenny's the sheriff now."  
  
Moretti laughed. "There's gotta be more to it than that, otherwise you wouldn't have told me that long, complicated story."  
  
She shrugged.  
  
"To give something back, I guess, to make up for the trouble and destruction I caused. I considered joining the FBI, the CIA, or the NSA, but I knew from experience that there were far too many backstabbing bastards among their ranks. Local cops, though, they're a comparatively good bunch."  
  
"That's it?" Moretti was disgusted. "Just for some kind of pay back? You're riskin' your life every day, puttin' everything on the line for jerks like me, because some bastards in Washington used you when you were too young and stupid to know better? Emily, it ain't your job to make up for what they did wrong."  
  
"Well," she said, "that's not the only reason."  
  
"Why else?"  
  
Shrugging, she said, "This job really makes me think, and it lets me use all my skills on a regular basis. People do strange things for strange reasons, and they think up some pretty creative ways of getting away with it. I have to find motive, method, and opportunity to make a case, and I actually enjoy trying to figure it all out. It's like putting a puzzle together, but first you have to hunt through the whole house for all the pieces."  
  
She smiled then. "And people are a *whole* lot more complicated than computers, atoms, and viruses. It's a real challenge."  
  
"So, you're a cop because you like it," Moretti simplified.  
  
Emmy shrugged again. "Yeah."  
  
  
  
  
  
"After the West Bank War ended, she initially refused to go back to Washington. The judge put her in jail, and…" Liv trailed off. She wasn't sure how to describe what happened.  
  
Keith, on the other hand, had no problems voicing his impression of what happened to his daughter in prison.  
  
"She lost her mind. She started talking to herself all the time, rocking back and forth in her cell, muttering nonsense. She was only seventeen."  
  
"I have to ask," Steve prefaced his question, hoping to take the sting out of it. "Is she mentally ill?"  
  
Both Liv and Keith snapped, "NO!"  
  
Liv explained. "She was intellectually starving. Emmy can process a dozen different problems in different disciplines simultaneously, but in jail, there was *nothing* to do. For a while, it was like her mind imploded for lack of anything to occupy it."  
  
"Ok. In other words she was bored out of her mind?"  
  
"Yes, literally."  
  
"So what happened?" Steven was avidly interested. He had never heard this story from his girlfriend.  
  
Keith said, "I talked her into going back to Washington. She insisted that she would only work on computer security. She refused to even talk to anyone about anything else. She did exactly what she was sent there to do and nothing more for them. To pass the time, she developed her repertoire of immigrant characters. She finished her community service, and that last year, when she came home for good, the first thing she said was, 'Daddy, I want to be a cop'.  
  
"I asked her why and she told me, 'Because I've gotten away with so much for so long I think I'll be really good at figuring out how other people do it. I can do everything I've always done without getting in trouble anymore, and maybe I can fix some of the things I've done wrong along the way.'"  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti studied the young woman. In his line of work, he'd learned to read people well. The way she shrugged told him there was definitely more to the story.  
  
"So, you're one of the world's smartest people, and Bill Gates made you rich. You don't hafta to work, at least not in a job this dangerous. You coulda been a doctor or a lawyer if you wanted to help save the world, but you're a cop, gettin' shot at and workin' with the scum of the earth. Who you tryin' to impress?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"She and I were no longer on speaking terms, then," Liv said. "I got all this information second hand through Keith. She didn't even let me come visit her in jail. But when I found out she wanted to be a cop, I was so relieved. I had been worried that she was going to turn into some kind of evil genius or something. She had been jerked around so much, and she was so angry about what they had done with her ideas. I was afraid she was going to try to get revenge.  
  
"I went to her and told her how happy I was that she had finally found something she really wanted to do, and I told her how proud I was of her, and how good I thought she would be at her job.  
  
"She threw her arms around me and said, 'Oh, Mommy, are you really proud of me?'"  
  
"I promised her I was. It's still not easy between us, but she hasn't shut me out again. I just hope someday she'll be able to forgive me for what I did to her."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily shrugged again and said, "I just want to make my mama proud, I guess."  
  
Moretti knew he wasn't getting the whole truth, but he decided not to press the issue.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve rubbed his hands over his face. The picture he was getting of Emily was so convoluted and so far from what he expected that it made his head swim. They'd only been talking for an hour or so, and he was already worn out. Looking at Cioffi, he asked, "Have you got enough to make a profile?"  
  
Art pursed his lips in thought, then said, "This *is* a lot of information, sir, but if I'm not mistaken it stops when she was just eighteen." He looked to Liv and Keith for conformation, and when they nodded, he looked to Steve and continued. "A lot can happen in twelve years, sir, and every little detail helps." Looking back to Olivia and Keith, he said, "Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, is there anything else you can tell me?"  
  
Liv gave a defeated looking smile and nodded.  
  
"For the next eight years, life was basically run-of-the-mill stuff. She got her education, found herself a job (at which she excelled), moved into an apartment in Punx'y. She married Ian Baer, Tom's son, back in '26, and they built a house on my parents' old homestead. They were planning to wait to have kids, but they never had the chance."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Olivia thought a moment before she tried to explain.  
  
"Ian was a deputy, just like Em, and he knew how dangerous the job could be. What upset him even more was the fact that Emmy *volunteered* for difficult and risky assignments. She was good at her job, one of the best they had, and frankly, for the kind of things they had her doing, she was more likely than anyone else to come through it unscathed, but she and Ian were having trouble because he worried about her so much."  
  
Steve nodded. He knew what she meant. He'd waited years to find the right woman. It took a special kind of person to be a cop, and it took someone even more special to love a cop.  
  
Liv continued.  
  
"About three years ago, things went from bad to worse."  
  
"Why?" Steven asked.  
  
"BioGen." Cioffi answered, and was pleased to see the Chief look impressed.  
  
"Uh-huh," Liv confirmed. "Out of four hundred people exposed, less than a hundred survived. Emmy is one of nine who have not been permanently and totally disabled. You remember Beechie?"  
  
Steve nodded.  
  
"He'll be on a respirator the rest of his life. You never met Jeff Hargrove, but he's one of Sophie and Sylvie's nephews. He's still comatose, and his brother Chuck is paralyzed. Cliff and Alice Redmond died in each other's arms at home. Apparently, they were among the first afflicted, and, thinking it was just the flu, they both called in sick. We figure they were both gone before anybody knew what it really was."  
  
"Liv, Keith, I'm sorry. I know they were all friends of yours. It must have been horrible."  
  
"It was," Keith said. "The worst part was trying to support and draw support from other people who were going through the same thing you were."  
  
"Everybody in Cloud Nine was affected. We don't know anyone who didn't lose someone."  
  
Steven smiled softly, "But Emmy recovered."  
  
"Yeah, mostly," Liv said with a sad smile.  
  
After a quiet moment, Cioffi asked, "What do you mean, mostly?"  
  
"You don't come through an ordeal like that…unmarked," Keith said.  
  
Steve said, "She told me about her problem with the cold."  
  
Liv rubbed her arms as if she suddenly felt a chill and said, "That's really not even a problem. The big problem is, between the commuted death sentence when she was fifteen and the BioGen virus, which should have killed her, she's got this crazy idea that she is living on borrowed time. She even joked with me for a while about being a zombie, calling herself one of the living dead, and a dead woman walking. She continued taking the dangerous assignments and everything, but she had a much more cavalier attitude about it. She didn't take unnecessary risks, but she wasn't nearly as prudent as she had been in the past either. That's when Ian asked for a divorce. He just couldn't handle it anymore."  
  
Steve was thoughtful for a moment, then he asked, "Liv, forgive me, but if anyone I know could tell, it's you. Is she suicidal? Does she have a death wish?"  
  
Olivia laughed so long and hard, Steve began to wonder if the stress had gotten to her. When she finally answered, it was the only thing she could have said that was worse than 'yes'.  
  
"Steve, in a way she is more screwed up than I was before I met you. I wanted to die, but I was afraid. Emmy doesn't *want* to die, but she is *not* afraid."  
  
  
  
  
  
Donovan and the sketch artist interrupted the uneasy silence.  
  
"Chief, we have a picture."  
  
Steve looked at the sketch and saw Olivia's eyes staring out of the face of a beautiful young Negro woman with long golden spiral curls, a gold-capped tooth, Coke-bottle glasses, and a toboggan hat.  
  
Steve's face rumpled into a frown and he gave Donovan an, 'Are you sure?' look.  
  
Donovan nodded. "Like I said, Chief. I only knew it was her because that guy mentioned the eyes. Nobody has eyes like that."  
  
Steve nodded his understanding. After Liv chose Keith over him, those same eyes had haunted his dreams many a night until he'd met his Maribeth.  
  
"I shouldn't have missed the eyes," the young man said quietly.  
  
Olivia sidled up to the men and looked at the sketch. With a chuckle, she said, "That's Mandisa."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"One of Emmy's characters." Looking at Donovan she said, "Was she wearing a tight little midriff-baring t-shirt, painted on cutoff denim shorts, and hiking boots?"  
  
Donovan nodded dumbly.  
  
"That's *definitely* Mandisa. She's the Jamaican-born daughter of West African parents who immigrated to the island to escape political and social turmoil. She came to the U.S. on her own at nineteen to find a job and get a medical degree. She's spent the last six years working full time in a factory that makes women's undergarments, progressing from cutter to seamstress to sales rep, and taking classes part time at Penn State's Williamsport campus while she saves as much money as she can toward med school. When she gets her medical degree, she wants to join Doctors Without Borders."  
  
"Mandisa, huh," Steve asked.  
  
Olivia nodded. "Yep. It means sweetness."  
  
"And you say she's got about forty of these characters?"  
  
"At least. Maybe more."  
  
Steve shook his head and sighed. "We're gonna have one hell of a time finding her."  
  
After a cursory glance at the sketch, Steven groaned and Keith sighed, and they both wandered off to see if they could help Mark, Amanda, and Jesse with the information they had spread out all over the kitchen table.  
  
"Chief," Donovan said nervously, "I've got an idea."  
  
"What is it, Donovan?"  
  
Looking at Olivia, the young man asked, "Do you know all of the Lieutenant's characters as well as you know this Mandisa, ma'am?"  
  
Liv nodded. Looking at Steve, she said, "Except for the years when she wasn't talking to me at all, her immigrants were the one thing we could always talk about. Sometimes they were the *only* thing we could talk about."  
  
"Well," Donovan suggested looking at his Chief, "if Dr. Stephens would sit down with the sketch artist and describe each of the characters, we could distribute all the pictures, and improve our chances of finding the Lieutenant."  
  
Steve nodded thoughtfully. "That's a good idea, Officer."  
  
The young man beamed.  
  
Steve turned to Olivia. "What do you say, Liv?"  
  
"I can do better than that," she said confidently. "Emmy doesn't do things by halves. She's fanatical about perfecting her characters. Whenever she performs, she has someone record it. She's got hours and hours of digital video on these characters. If you tell me where to send the files, I can call Kenney and have him download all of it. Then you can pull color stills from the video."  
  
"Liv, that's super!"  
  
"Chief," Cioffi jumped in. "If I could watch the videos, I could profile each of the characters, maybe figure out where they'd be likely to hang out. Then we could prioritize our search by area. Look hardest for the people that would be most likely to spend time in each neighborhood."  
  
"Cioffi, that's brilliant!"  
  
While they conversed, Olivia noticed what Steve did not. When Steve complimented Cioffi's idea as brilliant, the light had left Donovan's eyes.  
  
Steve got excited knowing they might have just caught another break in this case. "Ok, Liv, let me put you in touch with my assistant. Leigh Ann has a high-speed internet link at the office. I assume we're going to be receiving some large files?"  
  
Liv confirmed with a nod.  
  
"She'll be able to handle it best, then." He picked up the phone and dialed his office. "Leigh Ann, I'm with Lieutenant Stephens' mother here. She has an idea that we need your help with. I'm going to put her on so the two of you can work out the details, ok?"  
  
As Steve placed the call, Olivia again noticed Donovan's reaction. When Steve said, 'she has an idea,' the young man had wandered over to take a seat by the window. Liv could see him staring sadly out at the bright Southern California day.  
  
Steve handed her the receiver, and, before she greeted Leigh Ann, Liv nodded toward the dejected young cop and said gently, "Steve, I think someone is feeling left out."  
  
Steve looked in the direction she indicated and said, "I think you're right. He did sort of get trampled as other ideas started rolling in, huh?"  
  
Liv nodded.  
  
"I guess I'll go talk to him."  
  
Smiling, Liv said, "That's a good idea."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve looked around. The house was a flurry of activity. Cheryl, Dion, Captain Cioffi, and Ron had been coming and going all afternoon. Right now, though, they were meeting in the den, comparing notes, and compiling their information for Mark, Amanda, and Jesse. Steven and Keith had just offered Steve's dad and friends some help, and both had been instructed to see if they could help the younger Cioffi make sense of Emily's movements on the map. Liv was on the phone, talking animatedly with Leigh Ann. Hannah was fiddling with her immunometer, trying to convince herself that it really was working properly and, as he looked through the dining room into the kitchen he could see that CJ, Lauren, and Jesse's wife, Katie Lynne, had slipped in under his radar to begin setting out a dinner from BBQ Bob's.  
  
The place was as busy as any squad room, maybe more so, but it was occupied by all his closest friends and family. Looking over by the window at the lone young man still staring out at nothing in particular, he realized poor Donovan was the odd man out.  
  
He went over and sat in the chair that faced the young man's. Slowly, Donovan realized he had company, and when he saw who it was, he jumped, and started to stand as a show of respect.  
  
"As you were, Officer," Steve said blandly.  
  
"Yes, sir. Did you need something, Chief?"  
  
"Yeah, Donovan. I need to talk to you…"  
  
Before he could continue, Donovan began to apologize.  
  
"Look, Chief, I know I screwed up. If I had apprehended her when I first saw her, it would all be over by now. Please, sir, I can be a good cop. It's all I ever wanted to do, sir. I don't have the legs for a meter maid's mini-skirt, sir. Please, please, give me another chance. I'll make it right, sir, if you just give me the chance…"  
  
Steve was caught off guard by the meter maid comment, but suppressed a grin. Finally, he interrupted the young man's rambling.  
  
"Donovan, you interrupted me. It is rude to interrupt, and it is very foolish to interrupt the Chief when he wants to talk to you."  
  
"Sorry, sir. Shutting up now, sir."  
  
"Look, Donovan. Your name's Charles, right?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Do you go by Charlie or Chuck?"  
  
Donovan shook his head. "It's Charles, sir. My dad is Charlie, and my granddad is Chuck."  
  
Steve smiled, trying to get the youngster to loosen up. "That's my son and me. I'm Steve, and he's Steven. I guess if he ever gives me a grandson, he might be Stevie."  
  
"Or a granddaughter might be Stephanie, sir."  
  
Steve's smile softened as he remembered that Emily's second middle name had been chosen to honor him. Then the smile left his face as he remembered that he might have another, even more personal connection with his fugitive lieutenant.  
  
Reading his change in mood, Donovan asked, "Uh, sir, did I say something wrong?"  
  
Shaking his head to clear the troubling thoughts and focus back on the matter at hand, Steve said, "No, Donovan, not at all."  
  
"Oh, ok. Sir?"  
  
"Hmm?" Steve was still distracted.  
  
"What did you want to talk to me about, sir?"  
  
"Your job performance."  
  
"Oh," Donovan said quietly as he dropped his head and lowered his eyes.  
  
"You did a good job today, Charles. I was impressed."  
  
The head snapped up. "Chief, I was three feet from her. I had my hand on her shoulder, and I let her walk away, sir."  
  
Steve nodded. "So did three other officers, Charles, but you're the one who eventually realized it and got us looking for the right woman."  
  
"I guess, sir, but I was a little late, and it was only luck that some surfer I questioned commented on her eyes."  
  
Reluctantly, he related the whole tale of how he'd questioned Emily/Mandisa, and let her go only to realize later what a blunder he had made.  
  
"I was also impressed with how quickly you worked out what she had done with those lasers in the park this morning."  
  
Donovan grinned. "That was nothing, sir. My dad used to do special effects for Universal Studios until he retired. When I was a kid, he used to take me to work with him during summer vacations."  
  
"Even so, son, you're becoming a damned good cop. I want you to keep up the good work."  
  
Charles looked down again, suddenly ill at ease. "Even though I let her go once already?"  
  
Steve sighed. "Look, Charles, one thing you have to learn, soon, before you tear yourself up, is, police work is ten percent luck and ninety percent hard work, but neither luck nor work will get you anywhere without something to hold them together. Do you know what that something is?"  
  
"No, sir," the officer whispered.  
  
Tapping two fingers to each of the young man's temples, Steve said, "What's inside here holds the luck and work together."  
  
Donovan looked up.  
  
"While you were with the sketch artist, the Lieutenant's parents told us a lot about her. Did you know she is one of the smartest people on earth? I mean smart like Einstein."  
  
"No, sir, is she really?"  
  
Steve nodded. "And we wouldn't have a chance in hell of catching her if it weren't for your quick thinking and good ideas."  
  
Donovan blushed. "Thank you, Chief. I, uh, I was thinking…we could also put all the characters in the FBI's most wanted database. Then if she went into any facility that was linked to the facial recognition program, we'd know right away, just like at the bank."  
  
"That's another good idea, Donovan," Steve said encouragingly. "I'll run it by Agent Wagner as soon as he's done meeting with the captains and Commander Banks."  
  
The young man grinned.  
  
"Now," Steve said, looking through the house to the kitchen, "I want you to help yourself to some dinner out in the kitchen. Then go home and get some rest. Report to my assistant's office at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. I don't know where I'll be, but I'll leave your assignment with her."  
  
"I won't turn down the free meal, sir, but to tell you the truth, I'd rather stay and help if I may. I really think I can contribute to the search."  
  
Steve thought a moment. It was six in the evening. He, Jesse, Cheryl, Ron, Dion, Liv, and Keith had all been up since the previous morning. This kid was certainly more energetic and resilient than any of them.  
  
"Ok, but eat first, and next time I tell you to knock off for the night, follow orders," he grinned.  
  
Donovan positively glowed now. "Yes, sir." He got up and headed toward the kitchen.  
  
"And, Donovan," Steve called.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Welcome to the task force."  
  
"Thank you, sir." 


	13. Catch Me If You Can

(Chapter 13. The house in Brentwood, a cruddy motel in Anaheim, other places in and around LA. March 8-16, 2033.)  
  
Sitting at the kitchen table in Olivia…no, *Emily's* house in Brentwood, Steve scrubbed his tired eyes with the backs of his hands as he tried to wake up and focus on the matters at hand. He'd never been good at morning meetings, and fatigue and worry for the young woman who might be his daughter were making this particular meeting nigh on impossible. Five days, now. Emily had been on the run for five days, and try as he might, he hadn't been able to sleep. If he felt like hell, he probably looked worse. He could tell it showed because of the worried looks he'd been getting from everyone. Steven, Maribeth, CJ, Jesse, Amanda, his dad, and now, he realized as he dragged his mind back to the meeting, even young Officers Cioffi and Donovan were concerned.  
  
"I'm sorry, gentlemen, please continue."  
  
Donovan looked to Cioffi, and Cioffi nodded.  
  
"Well, sir, with Dr. Stephens' help, we've finished the profiles of the Lieutenant's alter-egos, and we've distributed pictures. As we discussed earlier, in each neighborhood, we're searching harder for the characters that would most likely hang out there. I just spoke with Agent Wagner a few minutes ago, and he personally has uploaded all the pictures to the most wanted/missing persons website and linked them into the facial recognition program. All we can do on that angle now is wait for a hit."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily was tapping at her laptop when she decided to check the FBI's most wanted site to see what additional information had been posted about herself and Moretti. At the bottom of the page, there was a link to more information about her. When she clicked it, she was astounded to see a list of more than forty aliases. They were all performance characters she had developed. She clicked on one of the names and found a picture and a brief bio of the character. In the photo, she could see the stage at Boots in the background.  
  
"Hmmm," she muttered. "Mama's been helping them, huh? Guess I'll have to come up with some new characters before we have to hit the road again. Of course, I could *really* have fun with them…"  
  
She slipped a disk into her computer and started tapping away. It had been fifteen years since she had sold her programming language to Microsoft, and to this day, they had no clue she was still using it. It made everything so simple. She had yet to write a program that couldn't be saved on one floppy disk. She pecked away at the keyboard with one hand as she nibbled at a bit of dried up cuticle on the other.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Ok, what else have we done," Steve asked.  
  
Donovan took over the briefing, "At your father's suggestion, he and Hannah and I went out with the immunometer again to see if we could figure out what was going on with it the other day."  
  
Steve raised an eyebrow. "And?"  
  
Donovan got all tongue tied, apparently thinking his Chief took exception to him cavorting around the neighborhood with his goddaughter.  
  
With a wink and a grin, Hannah took over.  
  
"Well, Unk, remember how there were all those spikes and drops in the search grid?"  
  
Steve nodded.  
  
Looking at Donovan, Hannah said, "Charles, you figured it out, you explain."  
  
"Well, uh, there wasn't much to figure out, really, sir. Every spike was at a bus stop. She was riding public transportation through the area, switching busses at random, trying to avoid us."  
  
"Probably made contact with Moretti and was just killing time until she met up with him."  
  
"Yes, sir," Donovan confirmed, "That's what we think, sir. Some of the bus drivers recognized her, or, um, I guess I should say they recognized Mandisa. It appears her last stop was at Colorado and Ocean. An old Toyota Tundra was reported stolen a few blocks from there, and it turned up in La Mirada with her viral signature. We lost the trail after that."  
  
  
  
  
  
About and hour later, Emmy had finished writing her program. She was wickedly pleased with it, and she felt sure it would throw the FBI and the LAPD into mass confusion. She had named it BiRDD for Binary Repetitive Disinformation Device. The Chief had to open an e-mail and make a cell phone call to activate it, but then, every time he sent an e-mail or a reply, he would be creating more trouble for himself. She knew when they saw the e-mail she had sent, they would easily figure out that she was behind it, but she doubted they would connect it to the effects of the BiRDD program when they were first seen days later. It would take someone considerably smarter than she was to figure out exactly what she had done and how she had accomplished it. She seriously doubted that anyone other than herself would be able to uninstall the program, and there was no way to prove she was responsible. All in all, she thought it was a good job, well done.  
  
Now she needed to see what Hannah Wagner was up to.  
  
After a few minutes of tapping, searching, and reading, she laughed and said, "Oh, now this is *very* interesting. She's using the BioGen virus to track me, very ingenious. How can I throw her off? It's easy to be in forty places at once on the computer, but how do I do it in the flesh?"  
  
"Will you quit talkin' to yourself, woman? It's gettin' on my nerves," Moretti grumbled.  
  
"Sorry about that," Emmy said sheepishly. "I'm like that when I get into what I'm doing. It slows my thoughts down enough for me to process them before they're lost."  
  
She hissed in pain as the loose cuticle she'd been chewing at all morning peeled away and left a raw bleeding tear on her thumb. She got a tissue and wrapped it up, but the blood quickly soaked through. She repositioned the tissue to soak up more of the blood and watched as the stain soaked through.  
  
"Ahhh. Kind of gross," she said, "but it will work, and since I don't have any blood-borne diseases, it won't hurt anybody."  
  
She went to her makeup case and dug out a bag of cosmetic sponges, a pump bottle of liquid foundation, and her travel-sized sewing kit. Then she carefully selected about half the clothes from her closet and piled them on the small table, saying, "Now that they're looking for my people, these are useless anyway." Finally, she went to the bathroom and emptied the foundation down the sink and rinsed the bottle completely.  
  
"Hey, Moretti, have you got a lighter," she asked.  
  
Moretti was watching TV, and he took a second to respond. When he did, he merely grunted in the affirmative and tossed the lighter to Emily. She took the needle from her sewing kit and sterilized it in the flame of the lighter.  
  
Moretti glanced over, and said with a grin, "Splinters are a pain, ain't they?"  
  
"Hmm?" Emmy was clearly distracted. "Yeah, I guess."  
  
Moretti could tell from the tone of her voice she was up to something unusual now, so he came over to watch. With Moretti peering over her shoulder, Emmy found a vein in the heel of her hand and slipped the needle into it very carefully. It had to go in and come out straight to avoid tearing the vein. The last thing she needed was a puncture wound that wouldn't quit bleeding. As she sucked air through her teeth in response to the pain, Moretti yelled, "Jeeze, Em! What the hell are you doin'?"  
  
Jerking her head toward the computer, she said, "Read that, then I'll explain."  
  
Sliding the foundation bottle over beside her, she removed the needle from her hand and let the blood ooze into the bottle. At first, the dark ruby fluid dribbled out apace, but soon the flow slowed and she had to coax it by squeezing and massaging her hand. Finally, she decided she had enough, and pressed a cosmetic sponge to the wound. She would have preferred a sterile gauze pad, but having none, she decided the foam rubber wedge was the next best thing.  
  
"Ok, I've read it," Moretti said, staring uneasily at the small jar of blood on the table and turning ever so slightly green.  
  
"How much do you understand?"  
  
"She thinks she can track people by the diseases they've had. Every bug has its own scent, I guess, and she's workin' on a machine that can tell the difference."  
  
"Ok, good. Do you know who Hannah Wagner is?"  
  
Moretti thought hard. He felt he should know the name. He scratched his head and thought some more, but nothing was coming to him. He shook his head no.  
  
Emily grinned as she checked to see that she had stopped bleeding.  
  
"She's Agent Ron Wagner's daughter and Deputy Chief Steve Sloan's goddaughter."  
  
"No kiddin'?"  
  
"No kidding. And I'd stake my life she's got her machine working."  
  
Nodding toward the bottle of blood, Moretti said, "You pull another stunt like that, and you might just lose that bet."  
  
Emmy laughed as she screwed the pump action device back into the bottle. "I can't *believe* you're that queasy, Moretti. It's a one-ounce bottle. If you donate in a blood drive, the Red Cross takes *sixteen times* that much."  
  
"Yeah, but they have people there to take care of you if anything goes wrong."  
  
"Whatever. Anyway, before I moved out here, I caught a nasty genetically engineered bug that no one in California has ever had. That makes me easy for her to track. I'm going to use this," she said shaking the bottle slightly, "to confuse her machine. I'm going to make it look like I'm in dozens of places at once."  
  
Moretti said nothing more, but watched with interest as Emmy laid her clothes out on the table and bed, looking for inconspicuous places such as the inside of a cuff or the hem of a skirt to mark them. Then she used the pump to place a dab of blood on each item.  
  
"Em, that's gross."  
  
"I know, but I couldn't think of a better way to…spread my essence."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Anything else?" Steve hoped he'd be able to wrap this meeting up soon.  
  
"Just one thing, sir," Cioffi replied. "Considering how much makeup it would take to change her into some of these characters, I requested some men to do a search for any major purchases of theatrical makeup made by an individual not employed by the studios."  
  
"What did you find?"  
  
"Nothing. But, someone broke into one of the makeup trailers in Studio City and took several thousand dollars worth of stuff including cosmetics, prosthetics, hairpieces, and even the equipment for making facial molds and foam-rubber masks. Whoever it was left an envelope full of cash behind and the Lieutenant's viral profile was all over the place."  
  
"I see. So, she has everything she needs to make her look like anyone she wants."  
  
Cioffi nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
After all the clothes were marked, Emily used the remaining blood to smudge the cosmetic sponges. They came in their own resealable bag, and when she was done, she closed them up and, while Moretti was in the bathroom, she put them in the fridge to help keep them from drying up.  
  
"Oh, God," Moretti yelled as he opened the fridge a few minutes later to get a soda. "That's nasty."  
  
Emily ignored him and got out her makeup kit.  
  
"I think…I want to be…Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner," she said with a gentle smile.  
  
She got out a rich brown foundation and started blotting it on her face.  
  
  
  
  
  
"So, gentlemen," Steve posed the question, wondering if the two kids would come to the same conclusion he had. "What is she going to do next?"  
  
"Lay low," they both said in unison  
  
Steve was pleased, but tried hard not to show it.  
  
"Why? She can be anyone she wants. She can go anywhere she wants. Why hide?"  
  
"Sir, Moretti is a monkey on her back." Donovan said. "She swore she'd keep him alive for the hearings, and we have every reason to believe she meant it. The best way to keep him safe is to just stay put."  
  
Steve looked to Cioffi for his input.  
  
"I agree with Charles, sir," the young man said. "She's been on the run for five days now. She must be getting tired. I think she's going to catch her breath now, make some plans, probably try to figure out what we're doing to track her down, maybe even arrange another hiding place in case we get too close."  
  
  
  
  
  
The tall elegant black woman wrapped a gauzy scarf loosely around her neck before she headed out the door with her purse, a computer disk, and a large shopping bag.  
  
"Don't go anywhere while I'm gone, Moretti. You're safest if you stay inside, ok?"  
  
"Ok, whatever."  
  
Moretti laughed as Dr. Bentley Wagner left. He had to wonder if she would go to the hospital.  
  
  
  
  
  
"So," Steve summed up with a frown, "All we can do is keep hunting and hope for a break while she gathers her strength for the next round."  
  
Cioffi looked at Donovan as if to say, 'Are you sure?' Donovan nodded back, his eyes wide open, clearly telling Cioffi, 'Hell, yes.' Cioffi gestured to Donovan indicating, 'Well, go ahead, it's your harebrained idea. I'll back you up, but you're taking the risk.' Steve grinned as he watched the silent drama play out, but as the young men turned to look at him, he again let his features settle into a dark scowl.  
  
"Well, sir," Donovan began nervously. "Ah, actually, sir, Cioffi and I were talking, and, um, well, we thought you could maybe flush her out."  
  
"How?"  
  
Steve feigned puzzled interest. He'd already reached the same decision, but he wanted to let these two young men have their say. They'd been putting in a lot of hours processing all the information they had received, and Donovan especially had been doing a lot of legwork on the case. Their last real lead had fizzled out two days ago, and the trail was cold, so, he could spare the few minutes to stroke their egos and boost their confidence by letting them explain to him how to do what he'd already had planned.  
  
"It's like this, sir," Donovan volunteered. "Cioffi pointed out last night that she has been one hundred percent reliable about checking that voicemail service she asked you to call…"  
  
Steve nodded. There was no denying it. Emmy had checked her service every day between four and five, and they had tried to trace her calls. She had defeated them easily by programming the service to accept only a fifteen second message. They never had time to locate her.  
  
"…and Donovan figures we can use that against her." Cioffi jumped in to help explain. "It's like Dr. Stephens said, she plays by the rules; and one of the rules she made was that she would check her messages."  
  
"So, Chief, you call and tell her the trial is scheduled," Donovan suggested. "Tell her when and where to bring Moretti, and we grab them. Piece of cake."  
  
Steve had thought of the same thing exactly. It really seemed too easy, and he said so.  
  
"Art mentioned that, too, Chief," Donovan said, "but the fact is, the Lieutenant trusts you."  
  
"She wasn't too trusting the other night at the park," Steve said.  
  
"That was a different situation entirely, Chief," Cioffi explained. "Then she was running *away* from people who were trying to kill Moretti. This time, she'll be coming *to* something. I think she'll be eager to drop him at the courthouse. I'm sure this whole mess has really disrupted her life, and more than anything, I'll bet she wants it over with. She'll be happy to come in."  
  
Steve nodded thoughtfully. "Ok, we'll give it a shot."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily/Amanda's first stop was the Santa Ana Public Library. She checked her e-mail and read a couple stories at Fanfiction.net. Then she got the librarian to help her send a file to her friend, Deputy Chief Sloan, explaining that, for some very odd reason, the Internet service at the path lab was down. She was on her way, she said, to a conference at UCLA Irvine, but the computer labs there were likely to be packed because it was time for midterms. Since Santa Ana was on the way, she had decided to stop there and pass the time until the noon rush hour was over. She explained that she couldn't remember the last time she'd had to actually log on from a public computer, and the ones at the library were so out of date, she wasn't sure how they worked anymore.  
  
The librarian apologized for the inconvenience, and Amanda quite understood. She apologized for any offence she may have caused. She hadn't intended to insult the library's resources. Almost thirty years after the big quake and subsequent riots, and even though the droughts had ended eight years ago, she realized that some public facilities had received more funding than others, and she recommended a few organizations that might be able to help the library with additional grants. She said the LA Promise Foundation in particular had a special program meant to close the technological gap between the rich and the poor and that they might be able to help.  
  
Upon leaving the library, Amanda decided not to go to Irvine, after all. Instead, she took the Orange Freeway north to Placentia where she stepped into a small office supply store and bought a package of double-sided mounting tape. As she reached past another woman who was trying to make her selection, she deftly slipped her hand in the woman's bag and sneaked out her cell phone. She also found a Salvation Army donation box and dropped a couple articles of clothing in it.  
  
When she was finished in Placentia, Amanda hopped on the Imperial Highway and headed west back into LA proper. She spent much of the afternoon going to various homeless shelters and handing out clothes from the shopping bag she carried with her. She said that she didn't want to just give them to Goodwill or the Salvation Army because she was afraid they'd end up in the thrift store where the people who needed them most still wouldn't be able to afford them. After all, they were very good quality clothes and would have rather high price tags, even in a thrift store or consignment shop.  
  
  
  
  
  
His meeting over, Steve, decided to duck out for lunch. It had been a while since he'd had any time for himself, and there was a nice little Italian place not far from the house. His laptop battery was freshly charged, and he decided he'd have some broschetta, a little salad, and lasagna while he checked his e-mail. As the waiter left to place his order, he started scanning his e-mail.  
  
One subject caught his attention, made his heart beat faster, caused the blood to pound in his ears, turned his complexion suddenly paler. Surely, Amanda would know better than to casually e-mail him about *that*. Of all people, he would expect her to have the sensitivity to at least call if not come tell him the difficult truth in person. With trembling, clammy hands, he tracked the cursor over to the subject line, 'Regarding Emily,' held his breath, and clicked.  
  
  
  
  
  
In a dreary digital corner of the Santa Ana Public Library server, Emily's little BiRDD awoke, fluttered its tiny electronic wings, and waited.  
  
  
  
  
  
For some reason, it seemed to take longer than usual for the e-mail to open. When he did get to the message, it said simply, 'CALL ME'. His stomach washed with acid as he flipped open his cell phone and dialed Amanda. The waiter chose just that moment to bring his food, and, at the scent and appearance of the rich Italian fare, Steve turned from pasty white to an unnatural green.  
  
"Look," Steve told the waiter, "Suddenly, I'm not feeling so well. I'll pay for the food, but do you think you could just bring me a cup of tea and some breadsticks instead. I'm not sure I can stomach much else."  
  
The waiter nodded, confused, and glided away.  
  
The phone continued to ring. Why was she taking so long to pick up?  
  
"Amanda Bentley-Wagner," Amanda answered.  
  
"This is Steve. I got your e-mail," he said nervously, feeling the lizards crawling in his stomach.  
  
"What e-mail?"  
  
Steve frowned. How could she have possibly forgotten? The lizards grew larger. No longer cute little geckos, they were now full-grown komodo dragons.  
  
"The one titled 'Regarding Emily.' You told me to call you." He was growing impatient.  
  
"I didn't send any such e-mail, Steve." Amanda tried to remain calm and reasonable.  
  
"Well, it's right here on my computer, Amanda!" Frustration was evident in his voice. Lizards nothing, they were young dinosaurs.  
  
"Well, I didn't send it, Steve." Amanda was nearly in a snit herself now.  
  
"Then who did?" Large young dinosaurs.  
  
A pause.  
  
"Emily," they both said in unison.  
  
Steve sighed. He was getting so tired of this mess. He almost wished someone would just shoot Moretti and be done with it.  
  
"Well, while I have you on the phone, what were the results of the test." Very active, large young dinosaurs.  
  
"Steve, I was planning to talk to you about that tonight. I kind of wanted to tell you in person."  
  
His heart sank and his stomach cramped into a tight fist, but he gave the waiter a grateful smile for his tea and breadsticks anyway.  
  
"It's positive, isn't it?" He now realized he was going to be well and truly sick.  
  
"Well, no…" she answered slowly.  
  
Suddenly jubilant, but strangely not feeling any better, he said, "It's negative? Really?"  
  
"Well…no."  
  
"No? Well, which is it? Positive or negative," he demanded as he got up and headed desperately for the men's room.  
  
"It's inconclusive, Steve."  
  
"Oh. What's that mean?" He continued talking in the face of the odd looks he got as he entered the restroom, still jabbering away on his cell phone as he looked for a stall that was unoccupied. No matter what the circumstances, he needed to hear this now and get it over with. He couldn't take it twice.  
  
"The odds are fifty-fifty. She could be yours, but maybe not. We don't know anything more than we did before the test."  
  
"Oh, shi…" The expletive was cut off as Steve emptied the contents of his stomach in the toilet.  
  
"Steve? Steve! Steve, are you ok?"  
  
He could hear Amanda's frantic voice calling from a long way off. Finally, he caught his breath, spat out as much of the nasty taste as he could, and left the stall to splash some cool water on his face.  
  
"Yeah, Amanda, I'm ok. Hold on a sec."  
  
Apparently, some kind soul had sent for help, because the restaurant owner appeared to check on him.  
  
"I'm fine," he told the worried man. "I guess breakfast didn't settle so well. Could I get a glass of water to rinse my mouth?"  
  
The owner disappeared, muttering in Italian.  
  
"Look, Amanda, I'll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, don't use any of your computers."  
  
"What? Steve! That's not possible. You can't just shut the path lab down. We need the computers to do our work."  
  
"It will only be for a few hours, Amanda," he soothed her as he accepted the glass of water from the restaurateur.  
  
"We need to figure out how she sent me the e-mail under your name. The more the computers have been used since the message was sent, the harder it will be to track," he explained after he rinsed and spat. "If it's any consolation, I can't use mine either."  
  
She huffed at him but said, "Ok, you have three hours. If you can't get it by then, we *have* to go back to work. You wouldn't believe how fast the bodies can pile up here."  
  
"Ok, Amanda, and thanks."  
  
"Only for you, Steve."  
  
They said goodbye, and Steve went out to the mysteriously empty dining room and paid his bill. He also left his poor waiter a large tip. As he looked around, he commented to the now strangely hostile-looking owner of the establishment and said, "Hmm. The lunch crowd thinned out fast. You must do a brisk business here."  
  
"You tink-a so, huh," the short Italian asked pugnaciously.  
  
Steve wondered a moment at the man's attitude, and then understanding dawned.  
  
"Ohhhh…ahhhh…sorry about that," he grimaced. "Look, when I'm feeling better, I'll come back and bring a bunch of friends to make it up to you," he promised as he ducked out the door.  
  
"You do that, anna you putta me outta biz-a-ness," the man muttered as the door swung shut behind him.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Steve dialed Amanda's number, he unknowingly sent a message to Emily's BiRDD. While his phone was ringing Amanda's office, the little BiRDD had built its NESTT, a Numerical Entity Storage Trap and Transporter, with the entities it was designed to store and transport being digitized images of Emily's many alter egos.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily/Amanda stopped for a late lunch in Hermosa Beach, and while she was there, she touched up her makeup. The cosmetic wedge somehow found its way into the purse of the woman beside her at the mirror. After lunch, she found a nice little two-bedroom, furnished place in Redondo Beach, cable and utilities included. It was a vacation home, and she decided to rent it for a month under a phony name. She got a good deal, and confirmed that she would be able to move in within the week. As she passed through Compton on her way back to Anaheim, she pulled over beside a mailbox and made a couple of calls. The first was to her answering service.  
  
She heard a frustrated sigh.  
  
"Emily, it's Chief Sloan. The trial is March 15. That's a week from tomorrow. Have Moretti in Judge Greer's courtroom by nine a.m. Better yet, bring him in now. Your parents are wor…" The tone cut him off.  
  
Emily/Amanda sighed as she cut off the phone. "Sorry, Chief. Mama and Daddy will be ok. I can't bring Moretti in. Not until you figure out who's leaking information from your office."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Sorry, Chief, all I can tell you is the e-mail did not come from this lab. It came from a server in Santa Ana. I don't know how or why she did it, but as far as I can tell, it was just an e-mail message. Maybe she's just messing with you."  
  
Steve made a noise that was half sigh, half groan and said, "She's messing with me, all right, but I have a strong hunch that this is a lot more than just an e-mail."  
  
"I'm sorry, sir," the tech apologized again, "but I didn't find anything else."  
  
Steve nodded, accepting the young man's apology, all the while knowing he simply was not up to the challenge Emily presented. He was the best computer tech they could find, so Steve knew it was a lost cause. Emily had won yet another round.  
  
While the tech was packing his gear, Steve called Cheryl and told her to have Cioffi try to figure out which of Emily's people would hang out in Santa Ana, then he wanted her to get the cops in Santa Ana to ask around and see if anybody recognized any of them. Hearing Amanda say to the tech, "I wonder why she pretended to be me?" he was struck with sudden inspiration and told Cheryl to also pull Amanda's County Coroner's ID photo and include it with Emily's characters.  
  
"Ok, can I use my laptop," he asked as he hung up from talking with Cheryl.  
  
The tech shrugged. "I don't see why not. There's nothing more I can do with it."  
  
Steve thanked the tech, apologized to Amanda, promised her he'd take better care of himself, and headed down to the hospital cafeteria hoping that he could find something among the familiar offerings that would not further insult his already traumatized digestion. After he filled his tray and found a seat, he opened up his laptop and began checking his e-mail.  
  
Maribeth wanted to know when he was going to be home. He replied saying she shouldn't expect him for dinner, but he'd call if it would be after ten. Jesse wanted to remind him that it would soon be time for his annual physical, and that he knew he was busy searching for Emily, but that if he didn't schedule the physical as soon as she was found, he was going to tell Steve's dad *and* his son. With a laugh, Steve replied that he would absolutely be there as soon as Emily and Moretti were found. The chief wanted to know how the search was progressing. Steve stifled the urge to reply, 'very carefully,' and instead replied that he would forward a copy of Cheryl's report as soon as he got it. He hadn't had time yet to prepare a report of his own, and she was in charge of coordinating the task force anyway. He handled dozens of other messages as efficiently. Somehow, over the years, he'd actually gotten into the habit of managing his paperwork before it got the better of him.  
  
  
  
  
  
Every time Steve hit send, Emily's BiRDD laid an EGG in the NESTT. When the Entity Generating Gambits hatched, they would quickly leave the NESTT, and Emily and her characters would start appearing all over Southern California.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily/Amanda made her next call to her contact. She still didn't know who the man was, but she knew he wanted Moretti dead in some grand dramatic fashion that sent a message. He'd never said so, no, but Marino, Velasquez, and Rossi clearly hadn't planned on Moretti getting to trial. She wondered how her mystery man always knew what was going on. Did he get his information from the FBI or the LAPD? Maybe both? He hadn't yet told her where his source was, and she doubted if he ever intended to. Maybe she could con it out of him.  
  
"It's me, sir."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I was wondering if you had any more information to help me, sir?"  
  
She heard him sigh.  
  
"I have a lot of information, but I don't know how much it will help. I suppose…"  
  
"You never know what might come in useful, sir."  
  
"True…umm…ok…Hannah Wagner has developed a device that can track you by the diseases you've had. It's fully operational, and…" He seemed disconcerted, almost irritated, at being interrupted. Something sparked in Emily's brain.  
  
"I know, sir. I've already figured out how to counteract it," she interrupted again to see what would happen.  
  
"…All right…Er…Good work…" He stumbled again. Emily smiled. She now knew how to get the name of the informant. This guy, whoever he was, needed control. He liked taking charge, and he was used to being the smartest kid in the class. He wanted to be the one to ask all the questions and have all the answers. All she had to do was stay one step ahead of him in the conversation, keep him off balance, and soon enough she would have him so frazzled he'd blow his contact's cover and never know it.  
  
"Thank you, sir."  
  
"Your mother was working closely with the chief's assistant the other day…"  
  
"Leigh Ann?"  
  
"…Ye-Yes…and…she received a number of very large digital video files from Pennsylvania…"  
  
"I already know what they are, sir."  
  
"Ok…" She could hear him trying to catch his next train of thought before it left the station. "Agent Wagner has posted some forty-odd pictures…"  
  
"…on the most wanted site."  
  
"Um, yes…and they're linked…"  
  
"…linked to my name. I know, sir, and I have already dealt with that problem. What else?"  
  
"Ok, very good. Also, the Chief had his assistant contact Judge Greer. He'll…"  
  
"…be handling the trial? Did she tell you when?"  
  
"The fifteenth…"  
  
Emily suppressed a grin. That was too easy. Why was he getting so sloppy?  
  
After an awkward pause, "…you should expect a trap."  
  
"I thought as much, sir." But who was setting it? "Anything else?"  
  
"Not at this time, Lieutenant."  
  
"Ok, thank you, sir. Goodbye."  
  
Emily rapidly entered a series of universal codes she'd discovered by hacking into a phone company's internal messaging system that cleared the stolen cell phone's memory and wiped the record of her calls from the phone company's computer. The last number recall feature was now disabled. Even if the cops found the phone, they would never be able locate her contact. *She* would decide when and how to expose him and his informant. She snapped the stolen cell phone closed and dropped it in the mailbox. The post office would probably get it back to the owner within the week.  
  
  
  
  
  
Roger Gorini fumed. That wretched creature thought she was *so* smart. He couldn't believe he had allowed her to manipulate him that easily. He smiled. The last time she called, she'd asked him if he'd found a safe house for her. She must be getting desperate. He picked up the phone and called a realtor friend.  
  
He explained that he had some family friends who were coming out for a vacation and needed a place to stay. He asked Joe to find them a nice rental place with good security somewhere between Hollywood and the beach, but not too close to his own place in Beverly Hills. They were, after all, *family* friends, and he was not, nor did he wish to become too chummy with either one of them.  
  
In reference to Gorini's ancestry, Joe Gary jokingly asked what kind of *family* friends he meant, just how much security the place needed, and whether he should add bulletproof glass windows to his search parameters.  
  
Gorini gave a half-hearted laugh at the hackneyed joke and said in a bad Godfather imitation, "Dat, my friend, is una cosa nostra, capisce?"  
  
Then he called Leigh Ann.  
  
"Leigh Ann Bergman."  
  
"Do you know who this is?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"I need more information on what the task force is doing, and need you to get yourself on it."  
  
"But sir, I'm just a civilian assistant."  
  
"An invaluable civilian assistant, Little Bird. Get yourself on the task force."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"And find out where that safe house is."  
  
"I'll do my best, sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
For the next week, things went slowly for the task force. A librarian in Santa Ana recognized Amanda's picture as that of a patron who needed help with uploading a file at the library. The librarian was very sure she was headed for Irvine, but following that lead turned up nothing new.  
  
There were occasional unconfirmed sightings of Emily or one of her characters, but nothing was substantiated. Once in a while, when Hannah was out working with the immunometer, it would go nuts for no apparent reason. One time, in Hermosa Beach, it led them right to a woman's purse, not the woman herself, strangely enough, but her purse. She willingly allowed them to search the bag, but they turned up nothing that didn't belong there. Another time, the device insisted that a homeless woman was Emily, but it was clearly wrong. For some reason, Cioffi and Donovan noticed, it liked homeless people a lot. With Steve's permission, Cioffi and Donovan began questioning those with whom Hannah got a hit, but again, they had no luck. Nobody anywhere recognized any of Emily's characters.  
  
One day, one of the homeless people to whom the immunometer led them said Hannah looked a lot like the woman who had given him his coat. Hannah took out her wallet and showed him a picture of her mother, and after a little negotiating over the contents of Hannah's wallet, confirmed that the woman in the picture was definitely the one who had given him the coat. Amanda's picture went up on the FBI site, and she obligingly wore a transmitter when she was out and about so the task force could track her and eliminate false sightings before they sent officers to check it out.  
  
Steve grew impatient and ill tempered from lack of sleep. Everyone was concerned about him because for some reason, for the first time in years, he insisted on running the investigation. Cheryl had tried to tell him he was taking it far too personally and that it was not his job to take charge of the search, but he had exploded on her.  
  
"How *should* I take it Commander, when one of my *own* makes a fool of me?" He couldn't tell her his concerns about his real personal connection to Emily, but he thought there were enough other reasons to be upset for him to give her a satisfactory explanation.  
  
"Steve," Cheryl pitched her voice low to try and clam him. "It's not just you. She's got us all stumped. You've dealt with…" she chose her words carefully, knowing that Steve took exception to anyone using the words 'dirty cop' in reference to Emily. "…renegades before. Why is this one so personal?"  
  
"She sat right there in my office," Steve said, his voice more defeated than calm, "and she called me a hero. She told me I was…we were the reason she came to LA. She played me, Cheryl. She played me like a cheap kazoo."  
  
Cheryl chuckled, and Steve looked at her, confused.  
  
"What?"  
  
"All these years," she laughed, "and now you're talking like Liv again."  
  
Steve grinned lopsidedly, feeling marginally better.  
  
"The more things change, huh?"  
  
She nodded. "The more they stay the same."  
  
They shared a comfortable silence for a bit, then Cheryl asked, "There's more, isn't there?"  
  
Steve nodded, too worn down to even hesitate long enough to consider whether he really wanted to answer. He was initially surprised that Cheryl had seen through him so easily, then realized that he shouldn't be. They'd been partners, colleagues, and close friends for over thirty years now. She knew him almost as well as his own wife. In some ways, she knew him better.  
  
And she was still waiting for an answer.  
  
"There is more, but I can't tell you about it yet. There are too many other people who've got a right to know ahead of you."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily and Moretti spent the next week playing cards and talking. He genuinely liked the young woman, though sometimes her dark sense of humor made him uneasy and he got tired of losing to her in poker. He found out she knew his son, and though he didn't tell her why, he often asked her questions about her captain.  
  
Emily discovered that if one overlooked his history as a mobster, Moretti was a likeable guy. He was funny and more intelligent than she had originally given him credit for. He knew he thought he was being sly in asking her all about captain Cioffi, but she had quickly figured out that the captain was the son Moretti had mentioned.  
  
Moretti was on a diet now, but true to her word, Emily fed him so well, he didn't mind. Every morning she kicked him out of bed an hour before sunrise so they could go get some exercise. He'd walk, and she'd jog a few feet ahead of him and back so he wouldn't be all alone. Eventually, he started jogging with her in short bursts. She promised him she'd teach him the tango as soon as they got someplace where they had room to dance.  
  
One day, as they were poring over Moretti's records, Emily asked him about how the whole LAPD-Mob connection got started. He regaled her with a tale of danger and intrigue that included a mob war of succession for the position as head of the Ganza Family, the attempted assassination of then- Lieutenant Steve Sloan, the framing of Dr. Mark Sloan for murdering the mobster who ordered the hit, and two embezzling mob accountants.  
  
Emily laughed in disbelief. "Quite a complicated affair, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yeah," he agreed, "but only five people at the time knew Masters was fixin' things so Cainin would be the man in charge when it was all over. For a while there, the chief of police was runnin' the mob and the LAPD. Things just got away from him."  
  
Emily gaped. "Boss Ross Cainin was a cop?"  
  
"Yeah, good one, too, until he started likin' his new lifestyle a little too much. I guess when his wife decided she'd had enough of waitin' for him and worryin' about him he decided the only thing he had left was the 'Family.'"  
  
Em nodded, "And that's when things got away from Masters."  
  
"Yep. Cainin quit followin' orders, and Masters couldn't do a damned thing about it. No evidence."  
  
"I see…" Emily was looking through the records and the family tree Moretti had gotten from his safety deposit box when something caught her attention.  
  
"Cainin had a kid?"  
  
"Little girl…"  
  
"Liana," Em supplied, reading the name from the chart.  
  
"Yup. When she left him, Cainin's wife went back east somewhere. Took the kid, changed her name, remarried. They just dropped off the face of the earth."  
  
"Liana. What a pretty name…"  
  
  
  
  
  
The fifteenth rolled around. The 'trial' started.  
  
Steve, Dion, and Ron, sat in the courtroom behind the DA who was questioning a witness. Donovan was halfway back on the defense side, and Arturo Cioffi had an aisle seat at the back. One of the officers from the North Hollywood division was playing the role of Gaudino. He looked somewhat like the crime boss, but Steve doubted he could fool anybody for long. It was technically a public trial, and to make it more convincing, Steve had allowed civilians in the room, but he was worried. Still, he doubted if there were any trouble, that Emily would be the cause. The charade had been going on for just over an hour, and he was getting impatient for Emily and Moretti to show themselves.  
  
An elderly man sat in the back of the courtroom watching. He sported a bristly gray moustache, and a day's growth of beard. His custodian's uniform was shabby and stained, but clean, though it smelled of disinfectant; and he had the look about him of one who had always worked hard for a living. A fringe of wispy gray hair stuck up in a halo around his otherwise bald head. His face was deeply tanned and lined with years of labor, but his gold-green eyes sparkled with mischief.  
  
When the DA finally requested and received a fifteen-minute recess at about a quarter after ten, the old man turned to the young man beside him and said, "Well, that was good timing. My break's over now, anyways."  
  
Arturo Cioffi just smiled and nodded, glad that the smelly old coot was leaving. Cioffi couldn't believe there were people who actually enjoyed watching trials. Most of the testimony was as dull as dirt. He wondered how long the Chief was going to wait for Lieutenant Stephens. Often stakeouts went several days or sometimes even weeks, but this was a lot of people and resources to devote to catching two fugitives. Then again, if Moretti had the information and the evidence he was supposed to have, it might be worth it.  
  
A woman just outside the courtroom muttered as the custodian bumped into her and said, "'Scuse me, ma'am."  
  
"Watch where you're going," the woman said, rudely.  
  
The custodian said, "Yes, ma'am. Sorry 'bout that."  
  
The woman never noticed that her cell phone had disappeared.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emmy sat in the LTD, Moretti at her side, darting glances around the parking garage as she peeled off her phony face and scalp. He had to admit, she'd done a fine job of making herself up to look like that janitor. Now that they knew the hearing was a setup, though, he wished she'd just get them out of there before someone realized the janitor was missing or, worse yet, he woke up and reported what had happened. If the cops decided to lock the place down, they'd be in a terrible spot. Finally, with the makeup off and a wig and dark glasses on, she pulled out of the garage.  
  
A few miles from the courthouse, she stopped and tapped some numbers into the stolen cell phone. When she heard the BiRDD whistling the tune Rockin' Robin she tensed slightly. She knew when he stopped she'd have just ten seconds to enter her twenty-six digit password. To protect her program, she had made it a one-shot deal. If she blew it, the BiRDD would shut down, and she'd have to come up with a plan B fast.  
  
The song stopped, and she entered her ten-digit phone number, her eight- digit birth date, her three-digit badge number, and her five-digit house number. For a tense moment, she thought she'd goofed or that she'd been too slow, then the BiRDD started whistling again, and she smiled.  
  
  
  
  
  
Back from the recess, Steve took his seat behind the DA again. He wondered how much longer he could justify committing so many people and resources to this setup. The DA began his questioning again, and the witness answered, occasionally squirming uncomfortably and hedging. Trials were always so boring.  
  
This one was about to get interesting.  
  
Art Cioffi started as the balding custodian staggered drunkenly back into the courtroom. He leaned heavily on the back of one of the benches and waved off Donovan as he approached to help the apparently inebriated man. Suddenly, Cioffi knew something was wrong. Nobody got that drunk that fast.  
  
"Chief…"  
  
The janitor cut him off.  
  
"Your honor, may it please the court," the old man said, addressing the judge formally with the words he had often heard as he spent his breaks watching trials. "I have a message for Deputy Chief Sloan." Then the intoxicated man collapsed, insensate, on the floor.  
  
  
  
  
  
Cioffi sat on a bench in the back of the courtroom, head hanging. He felt like the village idiot. When Donovan came and sat beside him, he laughed bitterly, "Now I know how you must have felt."  
  
Donovan gave him a friendly swat on the shoulder and said, "Aw, it's not so bad."  
  
"I am so embarrassed. I know everybody must be wondering what kind of fool sits right there and talks to a suspect and doesn't even recognize her. I'm canned."  
  
"Look, Art," Donovan tried to encourage him. "If the Chief brought me *on* to the task force after letting her get away, I kinda doubt he'll kick you *off*."  
  
"I dunno."  
  
"I do," said a deep voice nearby.  
  
Both young men leaped to attention at the Chief's voice.  
  
Steve smiled slightly and said, "Cioffi, you don't have time to be embarrassed or to feel foolish. Find out where she was and what she did during the recess. That's our first step to finding her."  
  
  
  
  
  
While Cioffi and Donovan tried to track Emily's movements through the building, Dion got the search started on the street, and Ron reviewed the tapes in the security office. Steve interviewed the custodian himself. The poor man had been confronted with those mesmerizing gold-green eyes staring out of his own face as he'd stepped out of the bathroom at ten before ten. Emily had been, "real apologetic," he said, and she'd asked him about his health to make sure that when she drugged him that it wouldn't hurt him. The last thing he remembered before passing out was having a letter stuffed into his hands and being told, "Make sure Chief Sloan gets it. No one else."  
  
Moments after he finished the interview, Al Cioffi had called. Emily had been spotted at an ATM in Burbank, and units were on their way. Steve and Ron headed off, leaving Dion and an FBI agent in charge of the investigation at the federal courthouse. They had just turned on to the Golden State Freeway when a call came through for Ron. Em had stopped at the post office in Gelndale. So, they got on the Glendale Freeway just in time to find she'd showed up at the Pasadena driver's licensing center. Just as they arrived at the driver's licensing center, she appeared in San Gabriel.  
  
They'd spent the remainder of the morning following her south through San Marino, San Gabriel, Alhambra, Monterey Park, Rosemead, and a dozen other communities until she hit Long Beach, where she just disappeared. Steve and Ron stopped for lunch at a little spot on the beach, and discussed the situation. Their first inkling that something peculiar was happening came when Steve idly wondered which of Emily's characters they were chasing. Anxious to satisfy his curiosity, he called Cheryl.  
  
"All of them, Chief."  
  
"What?"  
  
Ron looked up curiously at his dismayed tone.  
  
"We had the Albanian in Pasadena, and a Haitian in Downey. One of the Irish ladies showed up in Lakewood, and Mandisa is in Longbeach."  
  
"That's not possible," Steve said.  
  
"You know it, and I know it, Steve, but the computer doesn't know it."  
  
Steve growled audibly, and, not knowing the cause of his frustration, Ron decided to hide his grin by taking another bite of his sandwich.  
  
"We have to check out every lead. One of them might be real," he'd insisted.  
  
Another spate of sightings had started up around mid afternoon, and still another after dinner. When the fourth round started right in his own station, Steve threw a fit of temper, and sent his coffee mug smashing through the patio door at the house in Brentwood. After grinding out a sincere, but angry apology, he excused himself and decided it was time he go home for a real night's sleep. Steven insisted on driving him, but wisely made no attempt at conversation until they got home.  
  
"Pops, it took us a while to connect, but since we got it together, you've always been there for me. I'm not going to ask you any questions, and I'm not going to try to push you to talk, but I'd just like you to know, I'd be happy to return the favor."  
  
Steve smiled gratefully, but said, "I appreciate the offer, son, and I'll keep it in mind, but I really do think I just need a good night's sleep. If you want to help, maybe you could give me some sleeping pills."  
  
Steven grinned and gave his dad an affectionate pat on the back. "Take a shower and get into bed. I'll bring you something in a few minutes, Pops."  
  
Steven sat at his dad's bedside as the 'old man' drifted off to dreamland. As Steve entered that half-dreaming state on the cusp of true restful sleep, his son heard him mutter.  
  
"Shoulda been a better father."  
  
"Shh, Pops, I know you did your best." Steven wasn't sure, but he thought he heard his dad say, 'She deserved better.' It was odd, for sure, but he put it down to the meds.  
  
  
  
  
  
In the early morning light, Steve pushed himself hard. He had decided to sprint the last 100 yards back to the beach house. He might not be able to set the grueling pace he had back in the day, but when his mind was too troubled to think straight, the pain and strain of a punishing workout still helped him focus his thoughts.  
  
He passed the beach house and settled into a gentle jog. As he was fighting for oxygen in the middle of his sprint, he'd broken through his runner's wall, and his swirling thoughts had finally fallen in to some kind of order. Since he needed to cool down properly anyway, he decided to keep thinking as he went up the beach.  
  
He had a lot of new facts, but little useful information. The custodian's message for him had been a letter from Emily explaining why she hadn't shown up and how she had chosen to impersonate the custodian. He could almost hear her mildly sarcastic, slightly mocking tone when he'd read the letter…  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Dear Chief:  
  
I suppose you had to try, but you could have given me a little more credit. Why did you think I wouldn't recognize office Donovan? With that red hair, he stands out like a new penny in a coin purse full of tarnished silver. Even if my contact hadn't warned me of the setup, I'd have spotted it as soon as I saw him.  
  
Let's just agree that next time, everything will be on the up and up.  
  
I've been watching the courthouse for about a week, and Harold (that's the name of the custodian who probably delivered this letter) likes to hang out in Judge Greer's courtroom on his breaks. He's tall and skinny, and nobody looks at custodians, so I figured he'd be the perfect cover for me to check out the trial. I guess if you're reading this, I was right.  
  
Please make sure Harold is all right, and assure him that he is in no danger.  
  
I know how boring trials can be, but I can only imagine how dull a pretend trial can get, especially when the one person for whom you're staging it decided not to show. So, I've arranged a little excitement for you. Are you ready?  
  
I'll be in touch.  
  
Have fun!  
  
Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens  
  
*  
  
*  
  
*  
  
Steve groaned as he went over and over the letter in his mind. She'd probably *watched* them set up the trap, but she decided to show up anyway, just to tease him. As he continued jogging north along the beach, he became dimly aware of a figure coming from his right to join him. She fell into step at his side a few yards away.  
  
"Morning, Chief."  
  
Steve nearly stumbled as he heard Emily's bright, cheery voice. She slowed down to help him catch up. She stayed just far enough away that he couldn't grab her, and it was a good thing, too, because he'd have throttled her if he could.  
  
"Whadda you want," he asked sullenly.  
  
"To talk."  
  
"So, talk."  
  
They continued to jog along.  
  
"I'm sorry about that wild goose chase yesterday, sir. I felt I had to keep you heading away from me. I know you must be embarrassed about that tantrum you threw at my place last night. Don't be, I know I'm making it difficult."  
  
He cast her a sidelong glance and said, "I'll pay to replace the patio door. How did you know about it?"  
  
She answered his question with a non sequitur. "I hear you used know a guy named Ross Cainin, an undercover cop working for Chief Masters."  
  
"Over thirty years ago, for a few weeks, yeah, we got acquainted. I didn't like him much."  
  
"Did you know he had a daughter?"  
  
"Did he?"  
  
"Yup. His wife left him and took the kid a while after he took over the Ganza Crime Family."  
  
"Oh, yeah? So?"  
  
"So, the kid's name was Liana. The more people you trust, the more that can betray you, Chief. Keep an eye on that one."  
  
Emily lengthened her stride, and Steve struggled to keep up.  
  
"Wait," he called, panting out the words, "How you know?"  
  
""Moretti," she called over her shoulder. Then he heard her laugh and, as she took off at a run, she yelled back to him, "Catch me if you can!"  
  
Steve ran as fast as he could for a few seconds, and almost thought he was gaining ground when he caught a cramp and collapsed flat on his back on the sand. As he watched the gulls wheeling overhead, he heard the sound of a speedboat taking off somewhere further up the beach. 


	14. To Do the Right Thing

(Chapter 14. The beach house, Brentwood, Amanda's Lab, Mann's Chinese Theatre. March 16&17)  
  
Steve lay on the beach for several moments, sucking wind, struggling to get his breath back, and watching the noisy gulls wheel overhead. The knotted muscles in the back of his left thigh were causing excruciating pain, and would have left him breathless even without his recent overexertion. He knew he should be heading back to the beach house to call in the incident and have the task force come check out the scene, but he was just too exhausted to move. That last, furious burst of speed he had put on in his futile attempt to catch Emily had taken everything out of him. For right now, it was all he could do to breathe. He felt nauseous and his stomach washed with acid as he thought of her getting further and further away every second.  
  
As if from far away, he heard a terrified scream over the roaring surf, "Dad!"  
  
He heard bare feet slapping on the wet sand (Steven always ran barefoot on the beach), and the screaming grew rapidly closer. "Dad! Dad! Oh, my God, Dad!"  
  
He wanted to sit up. He wanted to tell his son he was ok, but he was still fighting for air. He heard a soft thud and felt sand spray up on his body as Steven hit his knees beside him and started to examine him, checking for a pulse, and looking into his eyes. Seeing the frantic look on his son's face, he somehow summoned the willpower to control his breathing enough to relay a simple message.  
  
"I'm ok. Caught a cramp, needed to rest. Call Cheryl, Emily was here."  
  
He moaned as his right calf started to tighten up. At the same time, a tight fist clenched in his stomach.  
  
"Dad?" Steven's voice was still worried.  
  
"Go. Now." Finally, sitting up, he panted with a slight grin, "I promise…not to…wander off."  
  
Steven reached out and gently smoothed back his father's graying hair. Then, with a final worried look, he turned, and sprinted back in the direction of the beach house. Steve watched his son run along the beach, and for a moment remembered when he was that strong and fit. Then, when Steven vanished behind the dunes, he rolled on to his hands and knees, crawled over to the edge of the ocean, and vomited into the surf. As the water washed it away, he wondered what he had eaten lately that would look like coffee grounds when it came back to haunt him.  
  
In a matter of minutes, the beach was swarming with cops. Hannah and Donovan showed up with the immunometer, and tracked Emily as far as a small private pier a few hundred yards down the beach, but lost the trail once she got out on the water and there was nothing for the spores to cling to. Young Cioffi tracked her footprints from the pier, to a few yards from the beach house, back to an outcropping of rock where she appeared to have waited for Steve, and back to the pier. Judging from the number of footprints she had left along the beach, she must have been waiting, watching, and pacing half the night.  
  
After Steve gave his statement, he had to let Cheryl direct the evidence gathering and investigation at the scene as he was forced to listen to lectures from his son, his wife, *and* his father about what a 'man his age' could and could not reasonably expect to do. They were all clearly worried about him, and if they hadn't been so angry at him for his foolishness in trying to run down a woman less than half his age when she was fresh and he was at the end of a long run, they would have noticed his obvious discomfort as he swallowed back wave after wave of mild nausea. Steve hid a smile. If just one of them had been there, he'd have been caught for sure, but for once, their ganging up on him worked in his favor. Each of them was trying so hard to make sure they were heard that none of them noticed there was anything wrong with him. Maybe he could finish this case before they made him go into the hospital for tests, after all.  
  
Besides, he thought hopefully, trying hard to convince himself, it was probably just nerves anyway.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve stopped short when he entered Emily's house and saw Leigh Ann comfortably ensconced in the corner of the living room by the window. She had a small desk set up there, with her computer and a phone on it. A small two-drawer file cabinet sat beside her, and she had just picked up the phone when he made the connection.  
  
"Deputy Chief Sloan's office." She spotted him and smiled warmly. "Yes, sir, please hold."  
  
The chaos that had ensued after Emily left him eating her dust in the early hours of the morning had kept his mind awhirl. Between giving his statement, getting lectured, and trying to hide his discomfort from his family, he had barely had time to think about Emily's words. Then Amanda had stopped by to give Steven a ride to work as his car was in the shop again, and after hearing about his escapades on the beach, she had tattled on him about his upset stomach the other day. Of course, another round of lectures had followed.  
  
He was glad she hadn't told them what had set his nerves on edge, but he was highly irate that she would bring it up at all to begin with, and he let her know it. The ensuing argument brought with it raised voices and hurt feelings. By then, Ron had arrived, and if Amanda herself hadn't physically restrained him, he would have decked Steve for making her cry. Steve had left in a rage, running the dome light and siren in his car just to have an excuse to drive too fast, and headed for Brentwood, where he could calm down and think.  
  
And now he stood, looking at his assistant, Leigh Ann, and Emily's words clicked in his head like the tumblers in a lock…or a bullet in the chamber of a gun.  
  
Liana…Leigh Ann. Damn.  
  
He approached her and asked casually, "Leigh Ann, what are you doing here?"  
  
"I'm your assistant, Chief. I'm assisting you."  
  
"Well, yes, I know that, but why aren't you at the office?"  
  
"It's kind of hard to assist you from the office when you're never there anymore, Sir. Don't worry, though, I've worked it all out. All your calls are being forwarded to this line," she indicated the phone, "and a regular patrol car is delivering your mail at ten and two. Since the office is on my way, I'll stop by when I come in and when I go home every day so I can take care of the things I can't do here."  
  
Holding out the telephone receiver, she said, "It's Joe Cuiccio, from the DA's office. Judge Greer has scheduled the Gaudino trial, Sir."  
  
  
  
  
  
The afternoon meeting was a tense one, mostly because the two powerful men in charge still wanted to tear each other's throats out, and the rest of the taskforce wasn't sure what they ought to do about it if they tried. Each time they looked up, blue ice met smoldering coals, and the tension moved up another notch.  
  
"Judge Greer has set the trial for the twenty-eighth," Steve announced, "LAPD will be working in conjunction with the FBI to ensure security. Captain Cioffi, you'll be working on that with Agent Wagner." Turning to Dion, he felt the all too familiar twinge in his stomach as the anger in the young man's eyes matched that of his adoptive father. "Captain Wagner, you and Commander Banks will continue the search for Lieutenant Stephens and Moretti." Looking to the two very nervous and eager young men at the end of the table, he said, "Officers Cioffi and Donovan, you will remain on the search team."  
  
He closed the file folder he had been reading from and said, "That's all for now. Dismissed."  
  
As the meeting broke up, he said, "Ron, Dion, I'd like a private word with you."  
  
Ron turned away from him. Dion looked from his dad to Steve and said, "I'm not sure you want to do that now, Chief."  
  
"Maybe you're not, but I am," Steve responded. Softening his voice and his expression with a smile, he said, "Please?"  
  
Ron turned to face him, Dion nodded, and they headed into the den and shut the door. They sat at a small study table in the den near a window, and as he spoke to his two friends about one thing, he slipped them notes about another.  
  
"I am really sorry about what I said to Amanda this morning," he said. The note said, *Leigh Ann is the leak.*  
  
"This has all been really rough on me, for reasons I can't explain to you yet." The note said, *Emily found out she's Ross Cainin's daughter.*  
  
"I'll apologize to her today, you have my word." *You've never heard of her because Cainin's wife left him after he took over the Ganza crime family.*  
  
"Meet me at the Pathology Lab today, say two o'clock, and I'll talk to her." *And maybe we can figure out what to do about Leigh Ann.*  
  
"I don't care what's going on with you, Steve, you had no right to tear into my wife like that."  
  
"I know, Ron," Steve said, "and I'm sorry." *In the mean time, do everything you can to keep her out of the loop, but don't let on that we don't trust her.*  
  
Dion and Ron looked at each other for a moment, and nodded.  
  
"We'll see you at two," Dion said.  
  
"Ok, and thanks, guys. Uh, are we ok?"  
  
Dion said, "Yeah."  
  
Ron passed him a note, *Ask me after you've apologized to my wife.*  
  
Steve's guts burned.  
  
  
  
  
  
Leigh Ann sighed as she drove back to the station and wondered how the taskforce had managed without her for so long. No one had been coming by the office for days, and the Chief had been letting paperwork pile up on his desk, but now that she had set herself up in the house in Brentwood, it seemed as if there were a million and one things they needed from the office *now*. It was almost as if they were inventing errands for her to run.  
  
Oh, well. At least it gave her a chance during the day to take care of other important things.  
  
"Joe Gary Realty," the receptionist said.  
  
"Hi, this is Leigh Ann Bergman, Chief Sloan's civilian assistant. Could I please speak to Mr. Gary?"  
  
Her call was put through in just a moment, and when Joe Gary answered, she introduced herself again before explaining the reason she had invented for her call.  
  
"Things have been so hectic with this search for Lieutenant Stephens, and the Chief and I are both dividing our time between the Lieutenant's house and the office," she rambled on. "Somehow, the folder has been misplaced. I need the address in order to cut you a check for the rent, and because of this stupid new accounting program, if I don't get it into the system by three o'clock, I won't be able to cut the check until next month."  
  
Joe Gary thought about it a moment. He'd been working with Steve Sloan for almost forty years, and he'd *never* screwed up like this. He'd met Leigh Ann several times in the past three years, and Steve had always made a big deal about how much help she was. He knew Sloan trusted her, hell, he *relied* on her, but still…  
  
"Please, Mr. Gary. It'll be one less thing for the Chief to worry over."  
  
The girl's pleading and the genuine concern for Steve in her voice made up his mind. He gave her the address.  
  
Leigh Ann thanked Mr. Gary politely, and closed up her cell phone with a wicked grin.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve had gone back to the little Italian place near Emily's house for a late lunch. The owner eyed him suspiciously, but at least the man didn't ask him to leave. Studying the menu carefully, he finally chose a bland- sounding chicken dish with no tomatoes or marinara sauce. He'd been sneaking antacid tablets all morning, and had managed to surreptitiously use a roll and a half. Maybe when he got to the hospital, he'd ask Jesse to prescribe something stronger.  
  
Maybe not. The last thing he needed was one more lecture from a doctor.  
  
"Hey, Steve, how ya doin'?"  
  
Steve looked up and smiled broadly.  
  
"Joe, good to see you." He invited the man to sit down with a gesture.  
  
As he sat, Gary said, "I'm meeting a client, so I can't talk long. I just had to rub it in, though. You lost the file, eh?"  
  
Confused, Steve asked, "What file?" His stomach started to cramp.  
  
"Man, you are starting to slip. The file on that place you're renting from me for your 'friends'."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"You should be ashamed of yourself, Sloan, making your poor secretary share the blame, and then not even remembering what happened. Leigh Ann called me about an hour ago and got the address so she could cut a check for the rent."  
  
Steve swallowed hard. Then he swallowed again.  
  
"Jeeze, man, you don't look too good."  
  
Jabbing a finger into the tabletop, in the levelest tone he could manage, he said, "Stay right here. This conversation just became official police business. Don't go anywhere. Don't talk to anyone. I'll be right back."  
  
Then he made a beeline for the men's room.  
  
  
  
  
  
"So, you told him about Cainin's daughter," Moretti asked.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Emily and Moretti were comfortably settled in the place she had rented in Redondo Beach. The living room was spacious, and they were practicing the tango.  
  
"And?"  
  
"It's up to him to do something about it. I'm sure he'll make the connection and come up with something. He's no dummy."  
  
"No, I suppose not."  
  
Emily jumped and cursed and yelled, "Watch the toes!"  
  
"Sorry."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve pressed his face against the cold comfort of the bathroom stall door hoping its stainless steel coolness would help calm his queasy stomach. He'd been trying so hard to get Emily to bring Moretti in, so he could put him in *that* house. Thank God, she didn't listen. If she had, one call and Moretti would have been dead. Maybe she would be, too.  
  
That last thought was enough to push him over the edge. He hadn't eaten breakfast, so all that came up was a little coffee and the remains of some antacid tablets.  
  
He went to the sink and splashed some cold water on his face. 'It's just nerves,' he told himself. 'Every time something bad happens concerning Emily, you get queasy.' He tried hard to believe it. 'She's your daughter, and you've missed her whole life. You're afraid she'll be gone before you get to know her, that's all. It's just nerves. Just nerves.'  
  
He patted his face dry with a paper towel, and when he opened his eyes, the owner was standing there with a glass of water for him. He accepted it meekly, rinsed and spat, and drank the rest.  
  
"Thanks," he said, handing the glass back.  
  
"You need-a to see a doctor before-a you come-a back to my-a place."  
  
"I know. Sorry about that." He flashed the man his badge and ID and asked, "Is there a place I can talk to my friend where I won't be overheard or interrupted?"  
  
The short Italian studied the ID for a moment, then his eyes widened in recognition. "You look-a different on the TV."  
  
Steve smiled and said, "I hope that's a compliment."  
  
The owner shook his head. "Not-a the way you a-lookin' a-now. That-a redheaded cop, she-a givin' you trouble."  
  
Steve's smile widened into a rueful grin. "You have no idea."  
  
"It ain't-a no wonder you have-a ulcers. You canna use-a my office."  
  
"It's just nerves," he assured the rotund little man.  
  
"Yeah. Anna you'll a-be sayin' that 'til you a-spittin' up a-blood."  
  
Steve felt considerably better after his talk with Joe Gary. He had a plan. If they could just come up with a suitable ruse to make Leigh Ann and her friends really believe Emily was bringing Moretti in, they could probably sweep up the whole gang Leigh Ann was associated with and then bring Moretti in safely. Surely, then, one of them would roll over and give up their boss. He hoped he could get Emily's help with that. To prove to the owner, as much to himself, that his little episodes in the men's room were really nothing, he had them box his meal so he could take it with him to eat at the hospital.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve entered Amanda's lab and nodded cautiously toward Ron and Dion. Dion immediately handed him a note that said, "The room is bugged. We've found several throughout the hospital. Somebody knows your habits and has been taking advantage." Ron showed him the positive reading on his surveillance detection device, and pointed out where the bug had been hidden on the underside of one of the tables. Steve was immediately struck with the sickening realization that someone, somewhere may have been listening when he told Jesse and Amanda all about his connection to Emily.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he apologized.  
  
"I am so sorry for the way I yelled at you this morning, Amanda."  
  
"I know you are, Steve."  
  
"You do know why I got so upset, though, don't you? I mean, you know there was a reason. You were getting awfully close to…something else…that I just can't go into right now. I wasn't just lashing out at the most convenient target."  
  
Ron jumped in. "There is no excuse for your behavior this morning, Steve…"  
  
"Butt out, Ron," Amanda snapped.  
  
Shocked and chastised, Ron trailed off. He obviously didn't understand some of the dynamics at play here.  
  
"I'm not making excuses, Amanda. I know what I did was unforgivable. I just lost it, but I wanted to make sure you knew why. Can you forgive me?"  
  
Amanda pretended to think it over a minute. Then she walked over to her friend and wrapped her arms around him.  
  
"Of course I forgive you. You'd have to do a lot more than yell at me to make me stay mad at you."  
  
Steve gratefully accepted and returned the hug, knowing it was as much to prove to Ron and Dion that she forgave him as it was to comfort him. As Amanda gently disengaged herself, she cupped his face in her hands, made him look her in the eye, and said, "The longer you wait, the harder it will be, Steve. Before long, you won't be able to explain why you didn't speak up sooner. You won't have any excuse."  
  
His stomach churned, and he said, "I know, but I can't do it yet."  
  
"Soon, you won't have a choice."  
  
Unable to speak, Steve just nodded, and Amanda let him go.  
  
As he turned and looked at Ron and Dion, Ron flashed him a small grin, and said, "Now we're ok."  
  
Much to Steve's great relief, Captain Cioffi appeared just then and rapped at the glass door to the lab, gesturing to Steve that he needed to speak to him a moment.  
  
After Steve left, Dion asked, "Mom, what's up with Uncle Steve?"  
  
Amanda sighed, and said, "That's not for me to tell you, but," she looked intently from her son to her husband, "When all this is over, and the story comes out, a lot of people are going to be hurting. He's going to need all the friends he can get."  
  
"Did he do something wrong, Mom?"  
  
"What?" Amanda raised her brows in shock, then said, "Oh, God, no, honey." After a thoughtful pause, she explained things the best she knew how. "But some things did happen in the past that no one ever told him about. He did nothing wrong, son, but if his suspicions are correct, he never had the chance to do the right thing."  
  
Steve stuck his head back in the path lab. "Guy's there's been another rash of Emily-sightings. Let's get back to work."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily sat in the LTD beside a mailbox in Beverly Hills listening on a stolen cell phone. The Chief wanted to meet with her. He had a plan to get Leigh Ann and whoever she was working with, but he needed Emily's help, and her voice mail wouldn't allow him time to explain it. She gave it some thought and finally went in search of a phone book.  
  
"Barbecue Bob's," a cheerful young voice answered.  
  
"This is Emily. Tell the Chief to wait for me, alone, at Artoo-Detoo's spot on the Forecourt of the Stars at Mann's Chinese Theatre at one thirty tomorrow afternoon. Tell him to have an explanation of his plan written out and stashed in an envelope in his hip pocket. He won't see me, and shouldn't look for me, but I'll call and let him know if I decide to go along with the plan."  
  
She hung up.  
  
"Emily! Emily, wait," Lauren shouted into the phone.  
  
  
  
  
  
Olivia chuckled when Steve said where he was supposed to wait for Emily. "Figures she'd go for the robot," she muttered.  
  
"Why do you say that, Liv," Steve wanted to know.  
  
"Well, she was really into the new Star Wars movies when they started cranking them out. Episodes one and two came out before she was born, and she loved episode three. Anyway, Keith and I suggested she take a look at the original. We still had an old copy of it before they revamped it to fit with the newer episodes. She was not at all impressed with the special effects, but she loved R2-D2. She even dressed as him…it?…for Halloween one year."  
  
"I think at the time…she was about ten…she felt more comfortable with technology than with people," Keith added. "She wasn't a very popular kid, and even her few friends didn't understand her. In public, some of them acted like they didn't even know her, so she spent a lot of time tapping away at the keyboard, doing God knows what, lost in her own little world."  
  
Liv nodded her agreement, and continued, "Then one day, I show her this movie, and here's this little bucket of bolts showing friendship, trust, loyalty, affection, and a whole range of human characteristics that she rarely experienced with her peers. She loved it. She even programmed her computer with his sounds. It made one noise when she turned it on, and another when she turned it off. There were sound effects for errors, typos, opening and closing files, I swear it sounded like it talked to her."  
  
Keith laughed and said, "Yeah, and whenever she deleted something, C-3PO's voice would say, 'We're doomed!' It was just too funny. And whenever she used their names, she insisted on spelling them out. They weren't R2-D2 and C-3PO. They were Artoo-Detoo and See-Threepio. I think sometimes they were more real to her than we were."  
  
The discussion trailed off after Keith's last comment, and Steve found himself feeling sorry for Liv and Keith, but especially for Emily. Then he had gone off to arrange the trap he had in mind for Leigh Ann and her cohorts. He wanted everything in place before he met Emmy. That way, they would be able to go as soon as she was notified of the plan.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily was thrilled. She had always wanted to be a droid again, and while she was just too big for Artoo now, the See-Threepio suit was a perfect fit. She'd even bought a voice modifying system and fiddled with it until she sounded just like Threepio. She looked in the mirror, smiled behind her golden mask, and cried, "We're doomed!" Then she laughed. This was just way too cool.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve paced near the designated spot on the Forecourt of the Stars. He had decided to take the meeting alone because he was asking for Emily's help and didn't want to think this was just another ploy to trap her. Years ago, Hollywood Boulevard had been left go to seed. It had been slowly going downhill since the 1980's, but many of the old historic buildings had been suddenly vacated after the quake in 2005, and those that remained occupied were abandoned after the riots in 2007. Then, in the twenties, huge infusions of cash and energy had revitalized the area. Many of the grand old buildings and famous restaurants had been restored, and the drug addicts and prostitutes had been driven out. Historic Hollywood was again a place safe for families and tourists.  
  
A burning and cramping sensation pulled Steve out of his reverie, and he pulled a roll of antacid tablets out of his pocket and munched down two or three of the chalky pills. Grimacing, he realized they were one thing that had not been improved upon with time. He rubbed his temples trying to get his headache to go away. His stomach had been so unsettled lately, he had barely eaten, and he had been feeling the effects of low blood sugar off and on for the past couple days. Now, he was feeling tired and achy and tense, too. He was nervous about this meeting because it was vital that Emily should cooperate with his plan, but he was also angry. All yesterday afternoon and evening, his mind had been dwelling on Liv and Keith's comments about Emmy's attachment to the droids. It had sounded like she'd had a very unhappy childhood.  
  
He was angry that Liv had never told him he had a daughter. If he had known, maybe he could have helped Emmy. He wouldn't have tried to take her away from Liv and Keith, but he could have been a friend and spent time with her and watched her grow up. Surely there would have been more for her to see and do in LA than in the backwoods country of Western Pennsylvania. She might have been happier if she could have looked forward to the occasional visit, and she might have gotten into less trouble.  
  
Then there was his dad. Wherever he went, Mark Sloan had always been the resident oddball, a friendly, harmless, popular eccentric. He might have been able to teach Emmy to accept her differences and to relate to other people. There was no earthly reason a ten year old girl should prefer the friendship of a computer to that of kids her own age. If Steve had just known about Emmy, if he'd been allowed to be a part of her life, if she'd grown up knowing her younger brother…  
  
A sudden wave of nausea struck him at that thought, and he quickly retreated from it.  
  
Then he began to trace back through the ideas that had been passing through his mind. Who was he kidding? Had he known Emmy was his daughter, he'd have done just what he did with his son. He would have left it to his dad and Maribeth to look after her until she got into serious trouble. He was too busy playing hero to be there for Steven until it was almost too late, what made him think it would have been any different with Emily?  
  
Disgusted with himself, Steve had to admit that Liv and Keith had done better than he could have for Emmy. Still, it would have been nice to know her. It hurt to think he'd missed the first thirty years of her life.  
  
Then there was that other thing, the thought of which sickened him. He quickly stuffed it down, and turned to pace back to where he was supposed to be waiting.  
  
  
  
  
  
Three tourists were standing at the Star Wars spot on the pavement, a shiny golden robot, a stormtrooper, and some sort of two-legged reptilian or amphibious creature. 'Great,' Steve thought, '*Serious* fans. They always travel in packs, don't they?' He felt a twinge of pain as his stomach protested the annoyance he was feeling, and he massaged his temples to try to coax the headache to leave. 'They can be real weirdoes. Well, they better just stay out of the way.' As he stood nearby trying to massage the stiffness from his back, he watched them take turns posing with each other and snapping photos.  
  
"I do believe my feet are somewhat bigger than his," the robot said as he stepped onto C-3PO's footprints, still holding a camera in either shiny hand.  
  
Steve couldn't help himself. As he approached he said, "Concrete shrinks when it dries. There's really no telling how big his feet were."  
  
The golden face turned toward him, not with a swivel of the neck, but with an awkward, jerky motion that involved turning the whole torso and shuffling the feet. Even through the modified voice, Steve could hear a smile. "Really, sir? Do you know by how much?"  
  
Steve forced himself to smile back. "That's hard to say," he told the golden figure before him. The droid had a comical face. The big, round, glowing yellow eyes made him seem perpetually surprised. He was still holding the cameras straight up in the air, one in each hand, as if he had forgotten them. "It depends on a lot of things like how much water was in the mix, how humid the day was, and how fast it dried."  
  
"I see," the electronic voice sounded a bit disappointed. "So there's no telling if I would have filled his shoes, is there, sir?"  
  
Steve grinned, playing along. Ok, it was weird, but this guy *was* amusing, and until Emily showed up, he had nothing better to do anyway. "I see, you want to know if you measure up. Well, I think you should know, filling someone's shoes is just a human expression for being able to take over where your predecessor left off. It doesn't matter the size of your feet. What matters is the size of your heart."  
  
The digitized tone sounded even sadder, and the depressed sigh came through clearly when the android said, "Then there really is no hope for me, sir. I have no heart, just wires and circuitry and microchips." The robot hung his head, looking down along his golden shell to his shiny feet.  
  
Steve thought a bit. Here he was, waiting to meet the daughter who didn't know he was her father, the daughter who had kidnapped a federal witness, who had been on the run for a week and a half, who was vital to his plan to trap the mafia spy in his own office; and he was having a philosophical discussion with a confused young man dressed as a golden robot from a movie over half a century old. His life was really getting strange.  
  
For some reason, he wanted to say something to help.  
  
"Do you have dreams," he asked. "Things you want to achieve, places you want to go?"  
  
"Well, yes, sir, I suppose." The voice sounded uncertain. Steve was amazed at how much *humanity* remained after running a person's voice through a portable synthesizer. Modern technology was truly remarkable. "I have always wanted to…be of service…to help someone…to change a life…to make things better for someone. I know I'll never be such a grand hero as See-Threepio, but I've always wanted to make a difference."  
  
Steve smiled and nodded. "Then you *do* have a heart, and the more life tests you the bigger it will grow. Give yourself time, and you could very well fill his shoes and more."  
  
When the voice responded, it sounded brighter and more hopeful than a moment ago. "Do you really think so?"  
  
"I'm sure of it," Steve replied. "I promise."  
  
"Thank you, sir!" The robot reached out excitedly to shake hands, was startled to find the camera still there in the way, gawked at it a moment, clumsily stuck it under his arm, and reached out again. Taking the offered grip, Steve was surprised by how warm his touch felt. "Thank you so very much." The robot stood there shaking his hand for several moments, as if not realizing that he had yet to let go. Steve looked down at their still- joined hands and the movement slowed, the grip loosened, and the robot finally let go. "Um, sir, might I ask a favor?"  
  
"You can always ask," Steve encouraged. Whoever he was, this guy was a likeable sort.  
  
"Would you mind taking a couple pictures of the three of us together?"  
  
Shrugging, Steve said, "I'd be happy to."  
  
Forgetting the camera under his arm, the robot handed Steve the camera he was holding in his hand, and the one under his arm fell to the ground.  
  
"Oh, dear," the gold-armored android muttered as he turned and started to bend to pick it up.  
  
Suddenly realizing how unwieldy the rigid suit must be, Steve offered to help. "Here," he said, bending forward at his glittering companion's feet, "Let me." Inspecting the camera he told the tourists, "I don't think it's broken."  
  
For the first time in days, Steve found himself doing something that genuinely made him feel good. He snapped a couple shots with each camera, returned them to the stormtrooper and the repto-amphibian thing, told them about some other sights he thought they might enjoy and waved as they walked away.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily ducked back into the alley where she'd left the LTD, stripped off her golden armor, removed the voice disguising system, and stashed her costume in the trunk. She pulled black denim leggings and a black turtleneck over the black bodysuit she'd worn underneath Threepio's golden carapace and pulled a wig of short, curly, brown hair over the long red braid, which she had pinned snugly to her head. After applying a foundation to mask her freckles and touching up her lipstick, she stuffed a black and white bandana in her hip pocket and put on half-moon earrings and a grinning full- moon pendant of red jasper. The large pendant, an inch and a half in diameter and set in gold, hung from a long gold chain to the middle of her chest. It was a stunning piece, the focus of her whole outfit, and it drew attention away from her face--which was the whole idea, anyway. She added a matching reddish leather, duster-length jacket, and cowboy boots, and a black cowboy hat with a reddish braided leather band studded here and there with onyx and gold beads. A pair of John Lennon sunglasses completed the look.  
  
She had decided to leave the LTD behind. It was an older model car, a bit beat up, and it really didn't fit in with what her neighbors in Redondo Beach were driving. She needed something a bit sportier and had decided to purchase it on her way home today. She figured she'd take the bus to Burbank where she'd buy the car with a fake ID, and drive it back to the safe house.  
  
Taking up her black leather briefcase, which held her laptop, a cell phone, her fake ID's and now, the Chief's plan, she edged up to the corner of the building and angled her compact mirror so she could watch the chief without stepping around the corner. She knew the worst possible time to step back onto Hollywood Boulevard would be when he was looking her way. It was simply human nature to carefully scrutinize things that were new on the scene. She'd seen the Chief pacing while he waited for her, and knew if she waited long enough he'd turn away. Then she'd slip out into the pedestrian traffic, move with the crowd, and just be a part of the landscape the next time he turned around.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve whirled and paced back to the Star Wars panel on the sidewalk. It was two thirty, and Emily hadn't shown. He was getting worried. Everything he'd known about her, and everything he'd been told indicated that she would be on time, and here she was an hour late. He stretched and reached around to knead the stiff muscles of his lower back and tried to ignore the cramping and burning in his gut. His tension had left as he dealt with the tourists, but now it was back with a vengeance.  
  
  
  
  
  
As the Chief turned and paced away from her, Emily slipped back into the flow of traffic, and watching him as she went, started to make her way across the courtyard toward a restaurant called the Hamburger Hamlet, where she intended to read the Chief's letter and decide what to do about it.  
  
  
  
  
  
As Steve massaged his back, he realized something was missing. The envelope! He had written out his plan in detail, and as Emily had instructed, he'd placed it in an envelope in his hip pocket. It had stuck up a couple of inches, and he should have brushed his hand against it when he reached around behind himself. Clapping his hand to the pocket, he realized in a panic that he had lost the envelope. How in the hell had he lost it?  
  
The robot. See-Threepio. Damn, damn, damn! She was *right here* and he didn't even notice.  
  
Turning quickly, he scanned the pedestrian traffic for anyone who seemed out of place. The repto-amphibian thing and the stormtrooper had moved off to the Star Trek square on the forecourt, but the golden robot was nowhere to be seen. There was a family probably seeking out Shirley Temple or some other child-friendly star, and a blonde who clearly fancied herself the next Marilyn Monroe. Steve found it strange how long certain icons stuck in the American imagination. An androgynous figure, he wasn't sure if it was male or female, wandered aimlessly, probably looking for some old western movie star if he could judge by the person's outfit, then, apparently finding the sought for imprints, crouched and touched them reverently.  
  
  
  
  
  
As luck would have it, Emily was standing near Gene Autry's spot when she saw the Chief turn and search the crowd. Quickly she dropped her head and ambled along as if studying and admiring the cinematic history beneath her feet. Knowing her height would be the only thing to give her away at this distance, she dropped to a crouch and skimmed her hands across Autry's handprints and Champion's hoof prints.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve continued scanning the crowd. Nobody seemed out of place. He just saw the typical afternoon crowd wandering the forecourt, looking for a connection to their favorite stars. He started to catalog the people he had noticed. The stormtrooper and the amphibian stood out, surely, but neither costume allowed any way for Emmy to conceal her considerable height. She wouldn't be with the family, though the father was tall. She could have paid them to help her, he supposed, but he didn't think she'd take that risk, especially with children involved. It was a brisk, late- winter day, and given Emily's problems with the cold, he decided Marilyn simply wasn't wearing enough clothing.  
  
But that genderless westerner was certainly bundled up, and as 'Tex' was still crouching, Steve couldn't judge the tourist's true height. He took out his map of the forecourt. He could just make out the size and shape of the spot 'Tex' was investigating. It was square number seven, according to his map, Gene Autry's.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily got out her map of the forecourt. 'Ok, you've started this western theme, carry it through,' she told herself. 'Where's there another western movie star close enough that the Chief won't have time to get a good look at you before you get there?' She rose slowly as she studied her map of the forecourt. 'Ah, Steve McQueen.'  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve continued scanning the crowd, but for some reason he just had a feeling about Tex. As he watched, the object of his attention got up and moved three squares down and one to the left. 'Ok, Tex is tall,' Steve thought as he consulted his map. Steve McQueen. Tex was definitely a western fan…or trying to pass as one.  
  
  
  
  
  
Studying her map again, Emily planned her route, and gave up the idea of lunch in the Hamburger Hamlet. William S. Hart was number forty, down and to her right. Then Miss Barbara Stanwyck and her hubby Robert Taylor were at number forty-eight, straight across the courtyard from Hart. John Wayne's prints were at number seventeen, and that would have her just a few feet from the bus stop. Thank goodness for he father's interest in the old westerns. She had some familiar names she could draw on to help her, but damn she wished she had planned for this.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve watched as Tex studied a map of the forecourt, apparently trying to figure out where to go next. When the tourist put the map away and struck out across the courtyard, Steve began pacing again in that general direction. If Tex wasn't Emily, and Emily was watching, he didn't want to appear to be looking too hard for her. He needed her trust, and she had specifically told him he wouldn't see her and shouldn't look for her, but dammit, he found he wanted to see her. He wanted to talk to her, now, in person, in case things went badly later. He felt his stomach start to churn with acid again, and as casually as he could, he took out some antacid tablets and chewed on them.  
  
  
  
  
  
'Oh, great googly-moogly, the Chief is coming this way,' Emily realized with her heart in her throat. 'Why doesn't he just go away and wait for my call like I told him to do?' She hadn't seen anyone else, and didn't think this was a trap, but she didn't want to put anyone beside herself at risk if she could help it. If her contact and his people were using her to get to the Chief, he could ill afford to be seen with her now. She was officially a dirty cop and a fugitive, and if he were spotted with her and failed to arrest her, he would look dirty, too. Worse yet, if he had been followed, the bad guys could spot her, and she was just too vulnerable out here in the open away from her car. 'Just stick to your route, and get out of here as soon as possible, Em,' she told herself, wanting nothing more than to get out of there safely without confronting the Chief.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve watched the crowd as he ambled toward Tex, and when Tex stopped and bent to touch another spot on the sidewalk, Steve consulted his map. William S. Hart was in that area. He was another western star who went way back. When Tex rose and started walking across the courtyard again, Steve looked at the squares on his map that lay in this fan's path, and found that Barbara Stanwyck, matriarch of the old series "Big Valley," was right ahead. He turned and strolled back to the Star Wars spot, wishing he could just stop this stupid game and go straight up and see if it was Emily. He would ask if she was all right and find out if he could do anything for her. All he wanted was to see her safe.  
  
  
  
  
  
As Emily stood up from Barbara Stanwyck's spot, she was shocked to hear the grumbling of a bus as it pulled away from the curb, and she ran a couple of steps toward the bus stop before she remembered she was supposed to be a tourist and not someone in a hurry to get out of there. "Damned ecological bus," she muttered. The modern biodiesel engines produced almost no pollutants, but they lacked the distinctive noise and odor of the sulfur- hydrocarbon-carbon monoxide belching smog factories of her youth. "I'd have heard and smelled a good, old-fashioned diesel engine before it pulled away," she groused.  
  
'Ok,' she thought, consulting her map. 'The buses run every fifteen minutes. All I have to do is find a way to kill the time before I head back to John Wayne's spot. Hmmmm. Roy Rogers and Trigger.' She grinned and started to amble along slowly. 'Perfect.'  
  
  
  
Steve turned to see Tex bending to touch the sidewalk right where he expected. Then the visitor did a strange thing. Tex stood up, bolted a couple of steps toward Hollywood Boulevard, stopped, consulted the map, grinned, and then wandered to the east side of the courtyard, away from the street.  
  
Steve studied his map. As he followed Tex's path again, he realized Tex was bypassing what should have been a very important stop. Tex made a beeline for the space Roy Rogers had shared with Trigger, but skipped over Tom Mix and his horse Tony, just a few feet to the right. Something was definitely up. He munched a couple more antacid tablets to calm his uneasy stomach.  
  
Then he realized that Tex didn't have a camera, and he decided it was time to approach. By now, he was almost certain that Tex was Emily. The only doubt he had stemmed from the fact that Tex was just moseying around like any tourist, taking no apparent direction and instead simply seeking out sidewalk panels that seemed of interest. Emily would want to get out of there quickly, and would probably have taken the most direct route out of the forecourt. If she wanted to pass for a tourist, she might have strolled past a few of the old western stars' spots, but she would have still headed for Hollywood Boulevard instead of moving toward the back of the courtyard.  
  
Steve came to stand beside Tex as she (he could tell Tex was a she, now) studied Roy Rogers and Trigger's imprints. "So, you must be a western fan," he said.  
  
Tex looked up at him, her eyes shielded behind a pair of John Lennon shades, and said, "Yup." Then she looked back to the pavement.  
  
  
  
  
  
'Oh, crap,' thought Emily. 'The Chief is coming over. Doesn't he realize what could happen if he's seen with me? If he'd just stay away, he could maintain deniability if anything goes wrong.'  
  
"So, you must be a western fan," he said.  
  
She looked up. "Yup." Then she looked back to the pavement, hoping to discourage him. 'Just get lost, sir,' she thought.  
  
When the Chief said nothing, she continued, "I'd reckon a feller your age woulda learned by now that women are seldom impressed with the obvious."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve chuckled at her gibe. That *had* to be his Emily. 'His?' Everything he knew about her told him she would be sharp tongued and sarcastic. "I'm sorry," he said, "You just look like someone I used to know."  
  
"Another worn out line," Tex sighed. "That last filly wasn't interested either, was she?"  
  
"Oh, she was interested, all right, but…it just wasn't the right time and place." Steve felt his nervous stomach complain. Why was he directing the conversation to this topic? Was he losing his mind?  
  
Looking up again, she pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose and peered at him over the rims. "At least she was a little closer to your age, I hope. I'm young enough to be your daughter, and I ain't looking fo' no sugar daddy, so you can just mosey along."  
  
One moment Steve was smiling at those green-gold eyes, knowing he had Emily dead to rights, being amused by her barbed comments and proud of her valiant effort to carry off this charade, and the next, he was desperately struggling to keep down his lunch. Her comment had hit too close to home. As he retched and gagged, he suddenly realized with detached amusement that he couldn't lose his lunch because he hadn't eaten any. His stomach had been too upset earlier in the day.  
  
"You don't look so good, mister," said Emily, still not dropping the act.  
  
"Oh, God, Em," Steve groaned as the world began swirling around him. He was so grateful Emily was there as she helped him ease down to the concrete. He could just imagine the pain if he had dropped to the cement when he lost his balance. On all fours on the sidewalk, he felt the muscles in his back and ribs tense as his body prepared to deposit his stomach contents in Roy Rogers' footprints. Next thing he knew, he heaved and spit up a puddle of something that looked like coffee grounds flecked with white. Just like yesterday morning, he couldn't figure what the coffee grounds were, but he knew the white specks were his antacid tablets. 'Fat lot of good they did,' he thought.  
  
"Shit, Chief," he heard Emily mutter as she patted him down, obviously looking for something, "How long you been pukin' blood?"  
  
"Blood?"  
  
"The black stuff, Chief. Partially digested blood clots," she explained as she slipped his cell phone out of his pocket.  
  
He heaved again, and this time it was bright red.  
  
"Oh, hell," she cursed. Steve heard her dial 911, and felt her checking his pulse as she spoke briefly. "I need an ambulance at Mann's Chinese Theatre, along the east wall, halfway back. Deputy Chief of Police Sloan has taken ill. He's spitting up blood, and I suspect a bleeding ulcer."  
  
Gasping for breath between bouts of nausea, Steve heard her give them his vitals. "I'll make sure someone stays with him," she said and clicked the phone shut. He felt a gentle hand on his back as she leaned close to him, and murmured, "Ambulance is on its way, Chief. What are your orders?"  
  
Steve knew what she was asking. Did he want her to stay or did he want her to go back and protect Moretti? Oh, he wanted her to stay, but he was aware that other people were drawing close, and help would arrive soon. Emmy couldn't afford to be caught now. He had to do the right thing.  
  
"Look after your witness, Lieutenant," he whispered. "He's too important to put at risk now."  
  
"Yes, Sir," she said. "But let me make you a little more comfortable before I go."  
  
She helped him lay down on his side on the sidewalk, encouraging him to fold his arm under his head for a pillow, then she covered him with her coat.  
  
"You," she pointed at Marilyn, "Come here, kneel behind him."  
  
The young blonde was obviously petrified, but she did as she was told.  
  
"Rub his back, big slow circles, it'll make him feel better."  
  
Steve felt the gentle motion on his back, and was surprised that she was right. It did make him feel just a little better.  
  
"Try to help him stay calm, and if he passes out, keep him on his side just like this, that way he won't choke."  
  
Marilyn didn't say anything, but she must have given an affirmative response, because the next thing Steve knew, Emmy was crouching on the sidewalk in front of him.  
  
"It's important that you stay conscious, Sir. Just stay calm and keep breathing, ok?"  
  
Steve nodded. He was trying.  
  
"Ok. You." She pointed to the father of the little family. "Have your wife take the kiddies away, they don't need to see this. Then come back here."  
  
Steve heard sirens approaching.  
  
"Em, get outta here," he told her.  
  
"Soon, Sir. Soon."  
  
The father came back and asked, "What can I do?"  
  
At just that moment, Steve retched and vomited more blood. He saw the poor guy go pale, but was grateful when the man stood his ground, still willing to help.  
  
Emily handed him a bandana handkerchief.  
  
"Use this to wipe his mouth if you need to, and get down here, at his eye level, and keep him talking. Keep him conscious. I'm going to meet the ambulance."  
  
The man's face, scared and worried, suddenly appeared in front of him.  
  
"Hey there, buddy, I'm from Minnesota. How about you?"  
  
Steve felt, rather than saw, the stranger dab at his face with the bandana.  
  
"I'm from Malibu. I was meeting someone here."  
  
"That nice young lady, I'll bet. Is she your daughter?"  
  
Steve vomited again. Then he saw the wheels of a stretcher roll into sight, and everything went dark. 


	15. It's the Eyes

(Chapter 15. CGH, Redondo Beach. March 17.)  
  
Steve drifted slowly back to consciousness. He felt dopey, and queasy, and all of the other dwarves surrounding him. Smiling goofily at his own drug- induced witticism, he heard a familiar voice say, "Look, he's coming around." He felt a gentle hand brush the hair off his face, and opened his eyes to see Olivia and Jesse, the two shortest adults he had ever known, watching him with great concern.  
  
He started to laugh, then groaned, and wrapped his arms protectively about him as sore abdominal muscles protested the strain. The pain brought with it a fresh wave of nausea, and the next thing he knew, he was spitting up dark blood in an emesis basin that Liv had magically produced. Jesse handed him a glass of water and said curtly, "Rinse and spit, don't drink it."  
  
He meekly followed doctor's orders.  
  
With his rebellious stomach finally subdued, at least for the moment, he lay back against the pillows and looked back and forth from one of his friends to the other. Between Liv's worried look, and the thundercloud cloaking Jesse's features, he knew he was in big trouble and it wasn't just due to his illness.  
  
Needing to know what was going on, he finally asked, "What?"  
  
"Dammit all, Steve!" Jesse exploded. "What in the *hell* were you thinking? Isn't it enough that we have to put you back together every time the bad guys shoot you up, cut you up, and beat you up? Why do you have to go and be stupid on top of it all and tear *yourself* up? There is *no* way in *hell* you didn't know you were ill, and there is no excuse for not seeking treatment before now."  
  
Steve hadn't seen his friend so angry since after he'd returned from Utah years ago, convinced aliens had abducted him, and no one had believed him.  
  
"Jess..."  
  
"Oh, just shut up, will you?"  
  
"Dr. Travis!" Olivia was angry, too, which didn't happen often, and so got everyone's attention when it did. "Just which journal have you been reading that has lately discussed the therapeutic effects of cursing, insulting, and browbeating your patients? I'd really like to know, because I seem to have missed that article."  
  
The room was silent a moment, then Liv's voice cut the air again, demanding, "Please, I'd really like to know."  
  
All the fire left Jesse's eyes, his posture shifted, and his expression softened. Taking a deep breath, he apologized. "I'm sorry, Steve. I was just worried, and truth be told, I can't believe you didn't realize something was wrong."  
  
"It's ok, Jess." Steve felt sorry for his friend. He'd only been on the receiving end of Olivia's fury a couple of times thirty years ago, and he still remembered what an unpleasant experience it could be. "I guess I did know, but I convinced myself it was just nerves. I was going to come in for my checkup as soon as we brought Emily in and got Moretti safely tucked away, but I didn't quite make it that long."  
  
"You sure didn't," Jesse agreed, "So, how are you feeling?"  
  
"Like two of the seven dwarves," Steve answered, grinning slightly, but remembering not to laugh. When Jesse and Liv exchanged a confused look, he said, "Dopey and Queasy."  
  
Olivia and Jesse both smiled, and Liv said, "I'm glad you're in good spirits, but you really are quite ill, Steve."  
  
"Yeah," Jess said, "and everybody knows their names are Dopey, Happy, Sleepy, Sneezey, Grumpy, Bashful, and Doc. There is no Queasy."  
  
"There is now." At that moment, Steve felt his stomach lurch again, and he had just time enough to say, "Sick," before he was heaving again. Liv got him a basin just in time, and this time when he puked, the blood was bright red.  
  
He felt Olivia's gentle fingers stroking his hair as he hung over the edge of the gurney retching and heard Jesse sigh and say, "So much for the Compazine."  
  
"We've got to do something now, Jess. We can't wait for Lauren to get Mark here or for Maribeth and Steven to finish up in the OR."  
  
"Endoscopy?"  
  
"Hell, yes, he doesn't even have to fast. With all the vomiting he's been doing, his stomach's got to be empty now. All he's bringing up is blood. There's no sense in doing an upper GI series now as that will only indicate the need for a gastroscopy anyway."  
  
Steve didn't understand half of what she said, but he knew from Liv's choice of words that it was urgent. She almost never swore.  
  
"I'll get the exam room ready, you explain the procedure."  
  
Olivia's wry tone of voice as she said, "Thanks a lot," was all Steve needed to know it was going to be horrible.  
  
  
  
  
  
"That son of a *bitch*!" Emily yelled as she burst into the house at Redondo Beach.  
  
"What happened?" Moretti asked, "He set ya up again?"  
  
"No. He got sick on me." She threw her hat in the general direction of the coat rack and sat down to yank off her boots.  
  
"What, he puked on ya," Moretti said as he picked up the hat and put it on a hook. "That why you're not wearin' your coat?"  
  
"Yes! No! He didn't puke *on* me, but, yeah, he was spitting up blood. I used his cell phone to call an ambulance, and left the coat behind to cover him up. I think he was in shock." The curly brown wig came off, and she started yanking out hairpins to let her braid down.  
  
"Oh, Emmy, that's no good."  
  
"No shit!" She removed her glasses and jewelry.  
  
"So what ya gonna do now?"  
  
"I don't know," she said, as she started stripping, completely unmindful of her audience.  
  
Moretti was getting concerned. Her sweater was coming off. When he'd first met Emmy, he wouldn't have thought twice about ogling her as she stripped, but now, he couldn't be so lecherous to a woman for whom he had found so much admiration, respect, trust, and, if he were honest, affection. He knew she'd be mad if he turned his back on her, and she was already so angry he was afraid to interrupt, but if that body suit started to come off, he would start to feel like a dirty old man.  
  
Suddenly, he wondered when he'd started to think there was something dirty about watching a beautiful young woman get naked. Surprised, he realized it was when he had started to see Emmy as more than just a beautiful young woman. He gulped as the jeans came down. She was stunning, he mused, transfixed, but she was also tough and funny and smart as a whip, and if some gawker forgot all that just because she had a great ass, decent knockers, incredible eyes, and gorgeous red hair, he didn't deserve the time of day from her.  
  
Emmy was a package deal, he realized. You didn't get the outside unless you could appreciate what was inside. Someday, she would make some young man very happy. If he were only thirty years younger…  
  
He breathed a sigh of relief as she collected her things and went into her room. If he were thirty years younger, she'd have separated him from his scrotum the first time he tried to hit on her. Thirty years ago, he'd been a louse, and she'd have had nothing to do with him. Hell, two weeks ago, he'd been a louse, and she'd risked her life and her career to save his worthless tail, but he knew all he was to her was an unwelcome responsibility. He thought about his grandson, and wondered if she liked younger men, and if she did, would the kid ever have a chance with such a force of nature as Em.  
  
Emmy interrupted his musings when she came out dressed in a sports bra, tight black biker shorts, and a weightlifter's belt. Her braid hung past her waist, and she was wiping her face with a makeup removal cloth. She was clearly getting ready for a workout. They had set up a small gym in the garage, and Emily had already started taking full advantage of it. She'd been trying without much success to get Moretti to do the same by asking him to join her in the garage on whatever slim pretext she could invent.  
  
She strolled over to the kitchen, and tossed the cloth in the trash and said, "Well, I'm going downstairs. I think better when I'm moving. Come see the car I got us. It's a hoot." At least this time, she thought with a smile, it wasn't a pretext. She knew Moretti would be interested in the car.  
  
  
  
  
  
When Liv explained the upper GI series, Steve was grateful that he didn't have to drink the chalky liquid she described. He really didn't think he could hold it down, but when she described the gastroscopy, he initially panicked and refused the procedure.  
  
"There's got to be another alternative, Liv," he pleaded.  
  
She nodded, conceding the point. "There's always another alternative, Steve."  
  
He breathed easier for a moment.  
  
"As I see it, you have four choices. We've already agreed the upper GI series won't work, right?"  
  
He nodded.  
  
"Ok, the gastroscopy. You've already done the prep for it. The entire procedure takes about thirty minutes to an hour, depending on what we find and what we decide to do about it. Recovery takes about twenty-four hours to get all the drugs out of your system."  
  
Steve shook his head. "I don't want you sticking a tube down my throat!"  
  
"Ok, relax. Exploratory surgery is an option. There's a much higher risk of complications because it's more invasive, and recovery takes two weeks to a month *if* everything goes *perfectly*."  
  
Steve sighed and said, "Olivia, you know I can't be out of commission that long."  
  
She nodded and said, "I realize that, Steve, but there is one more, really simple thing we can do to find out what's wrong."  
  
If he hadn't been drugged, he'd have heard the sarcasm in her voice, but, stupidly, he asked, "What's that?"  
  
"Wait until you die and have Amanda perform an autopsy," she snapped.  
  
"That's not funny, Liv," he told her.  
  
"It's not a joke," she replied.  
  
"Are you sure you're not exaggerating?" He tried to remain hopeful.  
  
"Nope." She showed him the product of his last bout of nausea and the smell of blood almost had him retching again. Quickly, she put the basin away.  
  
"Steve," she said more gently, "I'm sorry about that, but I wanted to make you realize, when you're spitting up that much blood, and it's that bright red, there is something very seriously wrong, and it's not going to get better by itself."  
  
He refused to look at her.  
  
She put her hand to the back of his neck, and gently massaged the muscles there.  
  
"If you let us do the gastroscopy, we'll know within the hour what's wrong, and we'll be able to do something about it."  
  
He leaned against her then, and asked softly, "Will you be there?"  
  
"Sure."  
  
Jesse came in then.  
  
"So, are we ready?"  
  
Liv gave Steve a gentle squeeze around the shoulders, and he said, "Yeah."  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti stopped short as he entered the garage.  
  
"Oh, shit! Ya bought an old Viper," he exclaimed, his eyes aglow like a kid's at Christmas.  
  
Emmy laughed, and said, "Keys are in it, go start it up for a bit."  
  
Moretti went around the car and admired it first. It looked sleek and powerful, an awesome machine. It wasn't blue, and it wasn't black. It was one of those nameless shades between that came into the night sky after the red of the sunset had faded over the Pacific.  
  
Reverently, Moretti settled himself behind the wheel. He wouldn't start the car because then he'd *have* to drive it, and since he wasn't wearing any sort of disguise right now, he really shouldn't go outside, but he could sit behind the wheel, shift through the gears, and imagine. His right hand grasped the gearshift at his side, and he put his foot on the brake. As he felt around for the clutch with his toes, his foot slipped off the brake and descended into empty air. Confused, he examined the car closer.  
  
Snorting with indignation, he shouted, "It's a freakin' automatic!"  
  
Emily was stretching before she started her workout. "Told you it was a hoot. Some jackass dropped out the original manual six-speed to put it in. Pop the hood and take a look at the engine," she laughed. "It gets better, or worse, depending on your point of view."  
  
  
  
  
  
Olivia and Jesse helped Steve climb up onto the exam table in the endoscopy lab. As he sat there, Jesse handed him a small plastic dosage cup of white stuff which he swallowed and struggled a moment to keep down. A self- inflating blood pressure cuff was wrapped around his right arm, and a tape thermometer was stuck to his forehead. Then Jesse and Olivia hooked him up to an EKG monitor and put a device on his index finger to monitor his pulse rate and oxygen.  
  
"Is all this really necessary?"  
  
Liv smiled. "The EKG has you worried, doesn't it?"  
  
Steve nodded. "If this is really no big deal, I don't understand why you need to monitor my heart."  
  
"The EKG and pulse oximeter give us an indication of how well you're tolerating the anesthesia as well as the procedure," Olivia explained. "We don't want you too heavily sedated because then you'll have trouble breathing, and if you get too agitated, we'll know you need a little more Versed."  
  
"Versed?"  
  
"It's a tranquilizer. Been on the market, oh, at least forty or fifty years. I've never had a patient have a problem with it."  
  
"But Liv, you're an orthopedic surgeon."  
  
She laughed, and said, "Primarily, yes, but you remember what a small town Punxy is, don't you? Nobody specializes exclusively in one type of practice, because there aren't really enough patients in the area to support a bunch of specialists. I've done a lot of internal medicine and family practice over the years."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Jesse had him open his mouth and hold his breath. "Don't swallow until I tell you."  
  
A bitter liquid sprayed into the back of his throat, and he made a face. When Jesse told him, he started swallowing, and his throat suddenly went numb. When swallowing became difficult, he grew worried and told Jesse so.  
  
"That's what's supposed to happen," Jesse reassured him, "so you don't gag on the scope."  
  
As Olivia inserted an IV catheter in the back of his left hand he asked, "Are you sure we can't wait for my dad or Maribeth?"  
  
"No, Steve, we can't," Jesse told him. "It's going to take Lauren a while to get to Malibu and back with your dad, and there's no telling how long Maribeth and Steven are going to be working on that motorcycle rider. If it were just the dark blood that indicates a slow bleed, maybe we'd wait, but so much bright red blood indicates ongoing, moderate to heavy bleeding. You may have an esophageal erosion or a tear, or some kind of bleeding in your stomach, and whatever it is, it *will* get worse until we do something about it." Looking at him with concern, Jesse said, "We need to deal with this as quickly as possible. If we wait, it could get worse, and major surgery could become necessary, do you understand?"  
  
Steve nodded. "It just sounds so…unpleasant."  
  
Olivia put a hand on his shoulder, smiled gently, and asked, "Steve, do you trust me?"  
  
"Always." All of a sudden, he was taken back thirty years. Now, as then, her touch, her voice, and her smile soothed him, calmed him, and replaced doubt and uncertainty with strength and confidence. He had never had less than absolute trust in Jesse and his abilities, but as long as Olivia was there, he *knew* he would be ok.  
  
"Then believe me when I tell you, the worst part of this procedure is imagining the worst. You'll probably sleep through most of it, and when you wake up, we'll have fixed what we can, and figured out what to do about the rest."  
  
"Ok," he nodded, and promptly lay back on the exam table, which was slightly elevated at the head and shoulders.  
  
As Jesse positioned him slightly turned on his left side with a small cushion under his head, Steve heard him mutter to Liv, "It still amazes me how you do that."  
  
Liv smiled back at him across the table as she slipped a needle into the catheter in the back of Steve's hand. "It's the eyes," she said.  
  
Steve wanted to explain to them that is wasn't the eyes, but the voice, the smile, and the touch that engendered so much trust, but the drugs, whatever they were, were already taking affect.  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti lifted the hood as Emmy settled herself on the Bowflex machine, and he was appalled. "*What * in *the hell* is this?"  
  
Emily exhaled as she pushed against the Bowflex, and said, "An ethanol- electric hybrid engine."  
  
"I see that," Moretti said, disgustedly. "They ruined this car, Em."  
  
"Yup."  
  
"I'm all for protectin' the environment, y'know," he rambled. "I grew up here in LA, and I can remember the days when I went out in a white shirt and came home in a gray one 'cause of the air pollution, but, hell, this is a *Viper*, for cryin' out loud."  
  
"Yup," Emmy agreed as she adjusted the Bowflex for a different exercise. "It's a 2002 GTS Final Edition coupe, to be exact, though I have to admit, I prefer this new paint job to the original red with white racing stripes. I book marked a site on my laptop where you can read all about it." She settled back on the machine, grabbed the handles, crossed her arms over her chest, and started doing crunches.  
  
"The paint job I can live with," Moretti conceded. "But, Em, this thing is *s'posed* to be a bad boy."  
  
"Yup," she said, as she curled forward in her crunch.  
  
"It's *s'posed* to run on gasoline…"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"…and belch exhaust…"  
  
"Yup."  
  
"…and growl when it idles, roar when it accelerates, and scream like a damned jet engine when it's cruisin'."  
  
"Yup, yup, yup."  
  
"But some *idiot* has turned it into an overgrown…"  
  
Moretti sputtered and gestured futilely in the air, unable to find the words to express his horror.  
  
"Flashlight?" Emily suggested, as she sat up from her last crunch.  
  
"Yup," Moretti agreed dejectedly, as he kicked a tire and leaned on the fender.  
  
"Does it make you feel any better to know it can still go zero to sixty in five point two and cruise comfortably at a hundred and ninety miles per hour?"  
  
"A little," he said, smiling slightly, "but not much."  
  
"How about this, then," Emily said as she moved to the weight bench. She loved the Bowflex for most of her strength training, but only the barbell would satisfy her for bench pressing. "It originally retailed for seventy- six grand, the dealer priced it at sixty-five, and after I showed him on my laptop all the ways it had been done wrong, he sold it to me for fifty- five. When this is all over, if I decide to keep it, payments will be less than fifteen hundred a month."  
  
Moretti moved over to spot her. He knew she could easily bench twice her body weight, he'd seen her do so at the motel gym in Anaheim; but he'd once killed a man by dropping the barbell on his throat when he was lifting, and since the first time he'd seem Emmy work out, the image had been strong in his mind. He'd hate to see the kid die in such an easily preventable mishap.  
  
"I s'pose that's a deal," he hedged, "but it's kinda like buyin' 'bloopers' underwear. It'll do the job, but it just ain't right."  
  
"But unlike second-rate briefs and bras, I can fix this some day, and make her like new, though I think I'll keep the paint job."  
  
Moretti glanced over at the car. "It is a cool color."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Ok, Steve," Olivia said gently several minutes later, "that was the Demerol. It's a pain killer, so you should be feeling pretty good by now."  
  
"Mmmm-hmmm."  
  
He heard her laugh, but she was a long way away.  
  
"This is the Versed, Steve. It's a tranquilizer, remember? If you start to feel sleepy, don't fight it. Just relax."  
  
"Uh-huuuuhhh."  
  
"Given that he's already had Compazine, and considering his history of heart disease and the recent blood loss, I only gave him half the dose of each drug, Jess."  
  
The combined drugs in his system were beginning to take effect, and Jesse's words were scrambled, but Steve understood that they were going to watch carefully to make sure he was comfortable. Then he blacked out for a while.  
  
  
  
  
  
"So," Moretti asked as he held the heavy punching bag for Emily, "wanna tell me what happened wit' the Chief?"  
  
"The DAMN fool TRIED to TALK to me," Emily grunted as she punched.  
  
"What's wrong wit' that?"  
  
"LOTS of things."  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"He COULD have BLOWN my COVER. If the WRONG PEOPLE SAW me," she landed three fast, hard punches, "and TRACKED me BACK here, YOU could get KILLED. I am TECHnically a DIRty COP, now, and SOME people could USE that aGAINST him."  
  
"He's no fool, Em," Moretti reminded her. "He'd never have gotten as far as he is if he was. He knew the risks, and probably had all the angles covered."  
  
"I don't THINK so," she argued. "I THINK he was being a STUpid, STUBborn JACKass and JUST WANTed to PROVE he could SPOT me."  
  
"Ok, ok, so, he spotted ya and came over to talk, and…"  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve drifted back to consciousness for a few moments. He could feel the tube down his throat, and there was something in his mouth keeping his jaws open. It felt weird, but it didn't hurt, and it didn't really cause him any discomfort, so, he decided Liv was right. His imagination was the worst part of the whole thing. Jess said, "…deep tear in the esophagus…cauterize…" Then Olivia said, "…wait…more Versed…" and he was out again.  
  
  
  
  
  
"…then I COVered him with my COAT, got some TOURists to look AFTer him, and CAUGHT the BUS outta there."  
  
"So, whaddya think is wrong wit' him?"  
  
"PRObably an ULcer."  
  
Emmy was still pissed off and trying to beat the stuffing out of the heavy bag. Moretti had no doubt she was imagining it was Deputy Chief Sloan.  
  
"CALLED MY MOM," she landed three more heavy blows in succession "and TOLD her he was ILL and that SHE should take CARE OF HIM," again with the three hard shots. "I KNOW her SKILLS and I can COUNT ON HER." The series of threes were coming more often. If anything, this workout was making her anger build, not helping her work it off. "She SHOULD be able to MAKE HIM BETTER."  
  
"What if she can't help him?"  
  
Emily didn't answer, she just screamed in frustration and pounded the hell out of the punching bag.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve surfaced again for a moment. He felt bloated, and heard Jesse say, "…little more air…get a good view," and realized that his stomach was being inflated like a basketball. Before he could get concerned about this, he drifted off.  
  
  
  
  
  
"AUGHHH!!!!" Emily wailed as her blows landed too fast for Moretti to count. The last few were so hard that they staggered him. Then she shoved the bag, knocking him completely off balance so that he had to let go and step away. Throwing her gloves in the corner, she flopped down on the weight bench and said, "If that damn dumb *bastard* had just stayed away from me, he wouldn't have gotten sick, and everything would still be running smoothly."  
  
Moretti couldn't help himself. He knew it was dangerous, but he had to laugh aloud. He simply couldn't contain it.  
  
"What the *hell* is so funny?"  
  
"Oh, lotsa things."  
  
Emily smiled, though she was still plainly angry, too.  
  
"Like what?"  
  
"Well, first of all, ya idolize this guy, and here ya are, callin' him SOB and 'stupid, stubborn jackass,' and a 'damn dumb bastard'. Whudja say if he was here?"  
  
Emily had the grace to blush. "Probably not a thing…until he left."  
  
Moretti laughed harder, and Emmy grinned.  
  
"Ok, Moretti, what else? You said there were lots of things to laugh at, and I need a laugh right now."  
  
"Ya said everything would still be runnin' smoothly if he hadn't gotten sick."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Em, things haven't been runnin' smoothly for ya since ya saddled yourself wit' me. I'm grateful for the protection and all, and really appreciate your help in gettin' back in shape, but I know I been nothing but trouble since ya met me."  
  
"Believe it or not, I'm learning to enjoy your company."  
  
"I know. I kinda grow on people."  
  
"Yeah," Em grinned, "like athlete's foot."  
  
"Hah-hah." Moretti said sarcastically, but kept laughing for real, too, and Em knew there was more.  
  
"Ok, Moretti, what else?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve heard the words "gastric ulcer" and "biopsy". He knew they did biopsies to check for cancer, and he tried to ask Jesse what he'd found, but the tube was in the way. "Just relax, Steve," Olivia said. "You're doing fine."  
  
He sunk into unconsciousness again.  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti sat on the weight bench beside her. "Emmy, you ain't half the bad ass ya think ya are."  
  
When she narrowed her eyes and cocked an eyebrow at him, he thought it would be safer to move away, so he stood and leaned against the car.  
  
"You're tougher'n any man I know, Em, and you're smart, and ya throw a mean left. You're the only woman I ever been afraid to piss off, but there ain't no man gonna puke blood just from talkin' to ya."  
  
She looked confused, and he knew she'd already forgotten what she'd said.  
  
"Well, ya said if he'd a just stayed away from ya he wouldn't a gotten sick," Moretti explained with a grin. "I think he musta been sick already. Ya don't just start pukin' up blood on the spot, do ya?"  
  
"No, you don't," Emily said, and she started to chuckle. "That was a stupid thing to say, wasn't it?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve squirmed a bit. He could feel something move down his throat, and he heard Jesse say, "…biggest duodenal ulcer I've ever seen…" Someone rubbed his shoulder and Olivia said, "It's almost over, Steve, you're doing fine. Jess, I'm going to give him a little more Versed." Jesse nodded, and said, "I'm going to take a culture to test for H. pylori." Soon everything went dark again.  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily was on the treadmill, now, and Moretti stood in front of her.  
  
"So, what ya gonna do?"  
  
Pulling an envelope out of her hip pocket, she said, "While I read the chief's plan, I'm gonna run eight miles, see if I can sprint the last 500 yards, and then take a shower. Then I'll decide what to do next."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve felt something coming up his throat and for a moment, he thought he was throwing up again. Then he opened his eyes and saw Jesse holding the end of the scope in his hand. Jesse reached in his mouth and removed something, and Steve felt his jaws close. Jesse looked down at him then, smiled, and said, "It's all over buddy. You can just rest now."  
  
Steve smiled back, nodded slightly, and closed his eyes. Some time later he heard Olivia and Jesse conversing. He couldn't seem to open his eyes to see them, but he recognized their voices.  
  
"Amanda's going to rush the biopsy and culture results," Jesse said.  
  
"That's good. I'm pretty sure he heard you when you mentioned the biopsy, and he'll be worried," Liv replied.  
  
There was a pause, then Olivia said, "You know, Jess, we're going to have to put him on an NG-tube for a few days for enteral feeding. Cauterization stopped the bleeding, but that tear in the esophagus needs time to heal. Any other doctor would have gone straight for open surgery when he saw how deep it was."  
  
"Are you saying that's what I should have done?" Jess sounded defensive.  
  
Steve fought to wake fully. He didn't understand a thing Liv and Jess were saying, and he wasn't sure if it was the drugs, the medical lingo, or something wrong with him. He did know what they were discussing sounded particularly unpleasant, though, and he really didn't want them to get in an argument over him.  
  
"God, no, Jess. I'm saying no other doctor has the skills to handle something like that through the scope."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Steve was relieved. He loved the way Liv could smooth something over so easily, and more importantly, he knew she meant what she said. She always meant everything she said.  
  
"He's going to hate it," Jesse said.  
  
Steve finally got his eyes open to watch them discuss what they were going to do to him next. The look on Liv's face was sympathetic and concerned, but determined.  
  
"It's the most effective, least invasive procedure, Jess. He shouldn't be trying to swallow past that tear right now, and TPN or a gastrostomy would just be too radical. You know I'm right, Jess."  
  
"What about a liquid diet?"  
  
Liv gave him a 'what kind of silly question is that' look and said, "You know he should be kept NPO for at least a couple of days to avoid any stress on that tear."  
  
All the strange words were making Steve's head swim. He tried to ask what NPO meant, but it came out an unintelligible jumble. Instantly Liv was there, sitting on the stool that was placed beside him. "Hey there. You've been listening, haven't you?"  
  
Steve nodded and his head went all swimmy again. He squeezed his eyes shut and held on to Liv and the exam table to make the world stand still. With supreme effort, he focused and asked simply, "NPOoooo?"  
  
"It's Latin, Steve, *Nil Per Os*," she said. "It means no food or drink through your mouth."  
  
"Whyyyy?"  
  
"You had a deep tear in your esophagus where it meets the stomach. I managed to stop the bleeding, but you need to rest the damaged tissues for a little while," Jesse explained, as he came to stand behind Liv to be in Steve's line of sight.  
  
"Okayyy." Steve smiled, pleased to find that he could understand them when they spoke English.  
  
"Do you want to know more," Liv asked.  
  
"Yeahhh." Steve thought a moment. It was hard. Then he remembered more letters. "TPN en en?"  
  
He was sure he'd said it wrong, and Liv and Jesse's matching smiles confirmed his suspicion.  
  
"Total Parenteral Nutrition," Jesse said. "It means intravenous feeding, but we're not going to do that. It can be hard on your liver, pancreas, and other digestive organs."  
  
"Ohhhh." Steve struggled to remember. They had talked about something else. "Gas…Gast…Gastronono…" It seemed like his mouth was stuck. "…nononomy."  
  
Olivia laughed gently, and Steve smiled back at her. He knew the drugs were making him goofy, and he didn't blame her and Jesse for laughing. He was grateful that they were taking the time to patiently answer his questions rather than telling him to 'just relax'. It was hard to relax when he was worried about what was to come next.  
  
"Gastrostomy. We aren't going to do that either, Steve. It's an operation to put a feeding tube directly into your stomach through the abdominal wall."  
  
"Nooo!" Steve struggled feebly to get away, but both Liv and Jesse grabbed him.  
  
Liv held his head between her hands and looked directly into his eyes. "Easy, babe. I said we are NOT going to do that. We are NOT going to do it, Steve. Do you understand me? We're NOT going to operate."  
  
He stopped struggling and looked at her. "No operationion?"  
  
She smiled sweetly. "No, Steve, no operationion."  
  
He giggled then and said, "You talk funny."  
  
She laughed and said, "So do you. Do you have any more questions?"  
  
He shook his head no, and when he stopped, everything in the room started moving. "Oooh. Dizzzzy." He closed his eyes.  
  
He heard Jesse say, "Ok, buddy. You need to rest a little more. Liv and I will be right here." Then he felt his head and shoulders move up a little as he heard someone adjust the exam table.  
  
"Thanks," he said, and smiled, before drifting off again.  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti was fixing dinner when Emily came up the stairs. Somehow, in the past two weeks, she had got him to like eating healthy foods, so he was making a big salad with lots of vegetables. He added some chickpeas and some pine nuts, which he knew were Emmy's favorites. Two salmon steaks were soon going to go in the broiler, and there was lime sherbet for dessert. Emmy had been surprised to learn he could cook at all, and once she taught him to cook with less fat, she'd been delighted to find he was willing to take over the chore. He couldn't believe how much she'd changed him in the past two weeks. He was going to have to find a way to show her how grateful he was.  
  
"So," he asked as she downed a glass of water, "do ya like Sloan's plan?"  
  
"Yup. It sounds good to me."  
  
"And you're gonna go along wit' it."  
  
"Dunno. If you agree, I might."  
  
"Me? What say do I got in it?"  
  
"Well, I figure since this is all about you, you should have the final word on whether we do it or not."  
  
Until that very moment, Moretti hadn't really considered that he had a choice in what happened to him. He'd been going along with Emily because she seemed fully capable of keeping him alive. He figured when he was turned back over to the FBI and the LAPD, someone else would be determining his ultimate fate. He knew somewhere down the line was a bullet or a blade or a sack of cement with his name on it, but in the here and now, he'd come to think of himself as just a tool to help the U.S. Attorney and the DA to put away Vinnie Gaudino and as many of his henchmen as possible. He really didn't know what to say to Emmy, and before he could answer, she was off to the shower.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve was more alert now and able to speak clearly, but he was still feeling dopey. After the procedure Liv had just described, he thought that might be a good thing. He felt the head of the exam table move up.  
  
"High Fowler's Position," Jesse asked.  
  
"Yeah," Liv said, "almost upright."  
  
"Are you sure you don't want me to get a nurse do this," Jesse asked as Olivia shined a flashlight up Steve's nostrils looking for the best entry point.  
  
"Positive, Jess," she confirmed. "A couple years ago, I developed a real knack for this, and I think it will be easier on him if I do the procedure."  
  
Not content to be discussed in the third person as if he wasn't even there, Steve asked, "Liv, how does one develop a knack for sticking tubes up people's noses?"  
  
Olivia sighed. "One becomes one of only three doctors healthy enough to treat almost four hundred patients who all develop paralysis of the esophagus within the same week after being exposed to a genetically engineered virus. The nursing staff couldn't keep up with everything, so we doctors did whatever we could whenever it was needed."  
  
"Oh." Steve wished he hadn't asked the question. "I'm sorry, Liv. It was a stupid question." He couldn't begin to imagine what she had gone through when the BioGen virus was released. "Liv, if you'd rather not…that is, if it's difficult for you to do this for me…"  
  
She stared off into space for a moment, deciding whether she wanted to elaborate or just let the matter die. It had been months since she'd talked about her experience with the BioGen virus, choosing instead to focus on how her daughter had fared. Emmy was one of the few patients to recover, and it was so much easier thinking about her than about all the friends and neighbors who had either died or been permanently disabled by the bug.  
  
"No, Steve, it's ok," she finally said. "For a while, it was like assembly- line medicine. Waiting room for vitals and by the time that was finished, they'd stop breathing, one after another. It just swamped us so fast. In trauma one, Davis would put them on a ventilator. Halfway through the first day, we were calling around the state, borrowing from anyone who had machines that weren't in use. Then the patients went to trauma two where someone would set up IV meds, urinary catheterization in trauma three, NG- tube placement with me in trauma four, out the door on an EKG and up to a room. All we could do was stabilize them and say a prayer before the next patient came in."  
  
She paused again, then said with a sad smile, "Listen to me, unloading on you. I'm sorry. Maybe I'll tell you more another time, when you're stronger, if you want to hear about it. Anyway, this procedure is always difficult for me to do because I know how unpleasant and uncomfortable it is for the patient, but it's part of my job, and it's a part I am unusually good at. I need to do this, Steve, because it's something I can do to help you."  
  
He squeezed her hand and said, "You help me just by being here, Liv."  
  
"Yeah, there is that, but I want to do more."  
  
He nodded. "I understand."  
  
  
  
  
  
"So, let me get this straight," Moretti said, "you call and pretend to be sick, and ask Sloan for help. He gives you the safe house address, you take me there, and they get the bad guys who come after us. Then we run off again."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Why do we run off?"  
  
"Because the FBI still has a leak, and if whoever it is belongs to the task force, there's too much chance that they will get the location of the secondary safe house."  
  
"Oh. Why can't they have someone in disguise instead of using us?"  
  
"Because, some of the bad guys might be cops involved in the bust. Except for the Chief and a few of his closest people, there's no telling who can be trusted."  
  
"Besides the Chief, who do you trust?"  
  
Emmy thought a while, and when she answered, she surprised Moretti. "My mama," she said.  
  
  
  
  
  
"You want a cup of water and a straw," Jesse asked.  
  
"I don't know, what do you think?"  
  
"Well, I know we said he should be NPO, but if sipping water makes the tube go down easier, I don't think it'd hurt. I suppose you could just have him swallow without the water."  
  
"Yeah, but the water will act as a lubricant. I think we should use it."  
  
"Ok. I'll get it."  
  
While Jesse was gone, Liv measured the tube by holding the tip of the tube at Steve's earlobe and drawing it across his face to the tip of his nose where she marked the tube, using a small piece of tape. Next, she drew the tube down to the tip of his breastbone and marked this location with a permanent marker. Then she bent the end of the tube forward so it curved slightly.  
  
Jesse came back then, and put the cup of water in both of Steve's hands. Then Jesse wrapped his hands around Steve's.  
  
"I'm not going to spill, Jesse."  
  
"I know, buddy, but when someone started messing around at your face, it's a natural reaction to try to push them away. This way, I can help you resist that urge."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Steve watched with growing apprehension as Liv lubricated the first three inches of the tube. He knew where it was going next, and the thought was making him increasingly nervous.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
Jesse gave him a questioning look as Olivia asked the question. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "I guess."  
  
  
  
  
  
"What about cops? Ya trust any of them?" Moretti was trying to figure out if Emmy really wanted to go through with the plan or if she was just bouncing around ideas.  
  
"Well, my mama knew Commander Banks, and she liked her. The woman is the Chief's right hand."  
  
"Yeah, an' Cainin's daughter is his left."  
  
Emmy nodded. "There is that. Hey, this looks great," she said as Moretti placed a broiled salmon steak before her.  
  
  
  
  
  
Olivia tipped Steve's head back and brought the tube up to his nose. Just as Jesse had said, his first instinct was to push her hands away, but Jesse squeezed his hands together around Steve's forcing him to tighten his grip on the cup of water. Steve felt the tube snaking it's way through his nasal passages and squirmed.  
  
"Easy, buddy. It's gonna be ok," Jesse murmured.  
  
The piece of tape Liv had placed on the tube came into view, and Steve closed his eyes. He heard a tiny tearing sound as Olivia removed the tape from the tube. A moment later, she tipped his head gently forward and said, "Ok, babe, take slow sips of water until I tell you to stop."  
  
Jesse helped him lift the cup and straw to his mouth, and he realized his hands would have been shaking if Jesse's hadn't been there to steady him. Slowly, he sipped the water, and each time he swallowed, Liv moved the tube in a few more inches. After what seemed like forever but was probably only a few minutes at the most, she said, "Ok, you can stop drinking now."  
  
Jesse lifted the cup away, folded Steve's hands across his abdomen, and covered them with his own. Steve opened his eyes, and Jess gave him an encouraging smile. "Almost done, pal."  
  
Steve did his best to smile back. Then Olivia moved in front of him with a flashlight and a tongue depressor and said, "Open wide."  
  
He felt her poke around inside his mouth for just a moment, then she said, "You doing all right?"  
  
"I, uh, I think so," he responded.  
  
"Good. The fact that you can talk to me tells me I didn't get it down your windpipe."  
  
She attached a syringe to the end of the tube, and pulled back on the plunger.  
  
"She's making sure it's actually in your stomach," Jesse explained. "If she gets gastric juices, we know it's where we want it."  
  
"Steve, I'm going to lower you head and shoulders," Olivia said. "Then I need you to turn over on your left side."  
  
"What's wrong," he asked, suddenly frightened.  
  
"Nothing, Steve. It's just that I'm not getting anything, probably because your stomach's nearly empty. Laying on your left side will move your gastric secretions closer to where the tip of the tube should be."  
  
He rolled over, and she pulled back on the plunger again. A pinkish fluid filled the tube.  
  
"Ok, there we go. It's a little bloody, but nothing like what you were bringing up." She smiled brightly at him as she injected the fluid back into his stomach and said, "That's a good sign, Steve."  
  
She taped the tube to his nose, plugged the end, wrapped a piece of tape around it further down, leaving a tail of tape hanging, and pinned the tail to his hospital gown. "In a couple of minutes, we'll take you to x-ray to confirm the tube is exactly where it should be, and before long, we'll set up a feeding schedule. We're going to keep you on an IV for now, to administer meds, but you'll only have to live with the tube for a few days, a week at the most. Before then, Jess and I will have worked out the proper medications for your ulcers, and you'll be feeling better before you know it, ok?"  
  
Steve nodded, and felt the tube jiggle. "Ok. Thanks, Liv."  
  
She smiled again and said, "Only a true gentleman would thank me for putting him through such an ordeal. Maribeth sure has worked wonders with you."  
  
He rolled his eyes at her joke as she looked to Jesse.  
  
"Can you stay with him for a bit, Jess? Keith is waiting for Maribeth and Steven to finish up in surgery, and I want him to have current information for them. Right now all he knows to tell them is that Steve was brought in here vomiting blood, and that's scary news to be greeted with about a love one."  
  
"Ok, Liv," Jesse agreed. "I'll go down to x-ray with him, and I'll leave word at the ER reception desk telling you what room he's in."  
  
"Thanks, Jess."  
  
Liv leaned over and gave Steve an affectionate kiss on the forehead. "You did very well, Steve. I know it was rough. If you just get some rest now, I promise you'll be feeling a little better by tomorrow."  
  
Before she left, he reached out and squeezed her arm. "Thanks again, Liv, for helping me through this."  
  
She smiled and said, "I'm glad I was here, Steve."  
  
  
  
  
  
"I need to talk to the Chief," Emmy said, pushing back her dessert dish. "I think it's time his old friend, Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner visits him in the hospital."  
  
Moretti chuckled. "Can't resist, can ya?"  
  
Grinning, Emily said simply, "Nope."  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve settled comfortably back against his pillows in the dark. He'd been drifting in and out of sleep since Liv had put the feeding tube in. Jesse was giving him some kind of sedative. Of that, he was certain, because today had been a total loss, a setback in fact, and he really couldn't bring himself to care. The one bright spot, he realized proudly, was that he had gotten everyone else to go home.  
  
He didn't object to their company, in fact, he craved it, hating to spend the night alone in the hospital instead of in bed beside his wife; but he felt so guilty about worrying them that he couldn't bear the thought of anyone spending the night beside him on a lumpy cot with a thin foam-rubber pad for a mattress. The six of them, Steven, Maribeth, his dad, Amanda, Jesse, and Liv had been arguing about who should stay with him when he finally settled the dispute for them.  
  
"I'll stay," Liv had said, "I have nothing to do but hang around the house anyway."  
  
"No, Olivia, there's no telling when the task force might need you. I'll stay. I have to be here at seven sharp anyway," Jesse contradicted.  
  
"Which is exactly why you should go home and get some sleep," Amanda had argued. "All of my patients are dead. I can't hurt any of them if I'm sleep deprived."  
  
"But you could miss important forensic evidence. He's my husband. I'm staying," Maribeth put in.  
  
"Maribeth, you've just spent what, five hours in surgery," his dad had reminded her. "You need to sleep in your own bed tonight. This won't be the first time I've spent the night here, I'll stay."  
  
"Granddad, at your age, you of all people should spend the night in your own bed. Go home, all of you," Steven had tried to command them. "I'm younger than any of you, and my back can take sleeping on a worn out cot. I'll stay the night."  
  
"Oh rub it in, why don't you," Jesse had said as Maribeth had given the young man an affectionate swat on the shoulder. Then the arguing started again.  
  
Steve silenced them by whistling through his fingers. Looking at Jesse he asked, "Do you expect me to die tonight?"  
  
Stunned by the question, Jesse answered, "God, Steve, no."  
  
"Is there anything you could reasonably expect to happen to me that could not be handled by the doctor on call?"  
  
Again, Jesse said no.  
  
"Then all of you go home," he had said. "Including you, Steven," he said, and the young man's triumphant grin died aborning.  
  
"But, Dad…" Steven began.  
  
"Listen, son…" Mark tried to override his grandson.  
  
"Steve…" Maribeth said softly.  
  
"No!" He cut them all off. "I got myself in here by working too hard, resting too little, and worrying too much about things I couldn't change. To see any of you risk your health by doing the same over me would make me sick with guilt. Jesse, I know you're going to drug me, so I should sleep well tonight," Jesse had the grace to look embarrassed, knowing he'd been caught, "and I am an adult, so I don't need anyone here to mother me and hold my hand if I should wake up. Now, visiting hours are over, so all of you scat! Go home."  
  
There had been some more grumbling and muttering, but eventually everyone had cleared out.  
  
  
  
  
  
Bold as brass, Emily/Amanda strolled in through the main entrance to the ER at Community General Hospital at around ten thirty that night. If anyone questioned her presence, she planned to say she had forgotten the results to an important test that she needed for a meeting with the Chief of Police first thing in the morning. It was a high priority case, and she didn't dare keep the Chief waiting. A few days ago, Emily had found some old videos of press conferences Amanda had given in her capacity as chief coroner for Los Angeles County, and she hoped she had learned to emulate the doctor's voice convincingly. If her vocal impersonation passed muster, she would wander down to the path lab, just to make it look good. On her way out, she'd stop by reception and ask for Steve Sloan's room number, explaining that since she was here, she just wanted to check in on her friend once more tonight before she left.  
  
  
  
  
  
Nick Solomon, an FBI agent assigned to monitor the most wanted/missing persons web page tapped his colleague, Timothy Brown, on the shoulder. "Hey, Tim, we've got a hit on Emily Stephens at Community General Hospital," he said.  
  
Brown looked at the screen and said in a bored tone, "It's the Dr. Bentley- Wagner disguise. Where's the locator say the doctor is?"  
  
Solomon clicked on another screen. "According to this, she's at home. Should I call Agent Wagner?"  
  
Brown thought a moment. "She probably just forgot the locator. I can't believe Stephens would be so stupid as to walk into a busy place like a hospital dressed as one of its most popular and best known employees."  
  
"I dunno," Solomon said, "She's pulled some wild stunts already."  
  
"Fine," Brown said, "call if you like, but I wouldn't want to be you when you wake and worry Agent Wagner over nothing."  
  
Solomon decided to think it over a little before calling.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Amanda?" At tall blonde doctor called to her, "What in the world are you doing here so late?"  
  
Emily/Amanda eyed his ID as she told her story. Dr. Alex Martin was a friend of Steven's and a former protégé of Mark Sloan's according to what she'd heard.  
  
Alex laughed. "You? Forget something that important. I guess it's true what they say. The mind is the first thing to go."  
  
Emily/Amanda laughed with him and said, "You'll find out soon enough for yourself. Have you checked on Steve lately?"  
  
"Yeah, about half an hour ago. He was sleeping." Alex grinned. "You're going to stop in before you go, aren't you."  
  
She rolled her eyes and looked embarrassed, saying, "I can't help it. We've been friends forever, and I just need to see for myself that he's doing all right."  
  
Alex shook his head, saying, "You're all a bunch of mother hens. Jesse stopped by 'on his way home' from BBQ Bob's about an hour ago."  
  
Emily/Amanda looked shocked and said, "Home is thirty minutes in the other direction."  
  
"I mentioned that, and he said he felt like going for a drive anyway. Like I said, you're all a bunch of old mother hens."  
  
"Oh, we are, huh? And how many times have you checked in since you came on duty."  
  
Now it was Alex's turn to look embarrassed. "Four," he admitted quietly.  
  
"Since…"  
  
"Since nine o'clock."  
  
"Mother hen indeed. I'll talk to you later, Alex."  
  
"See you around, Amanda."  
  
"Cluck-cluck."  
  
Emily/Amanda breathed a sigh of relief as Alex disappeared around a turn in the corridor. She decided to skip the path lab for fear of running into someone who might see through her disguise, and instead snatched a folder from the 'to file' basket on the ER receptionist's desk when the woman's back was turned. Then she stepped into the nearby doctor's lounge and dialed the patient information desk to get the Chief's room number.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Tim," Nick Solomon asked his partner. "What exactly are our orders concerning Dr. Bentley-Wagner?"  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily/Amanda quickly made her way to room 389. She needed to talk to the Chief and get out of the hospital fast. Too many people knew Dr. Bentley- Wagner for her to pass as the woman for long.  
  
  
  
  
  
CJ Bentley-Wagner had caught an earlier flight from Chicago. The young vascular surgeon was just returning from a conference where he had renewed his acquaintance with a lovely colleague named Dr. Alicia Birch Geiger whom he had first met as a child at his Uncle Steve's almost-wedding in Pennsylvania some thirty years ago. He would have loved to spend more time in the woman's company, but he had checked his voice mail before meeting her for dinner and found that Steve had been admitted to the Community General's ER earlier that day and he had been vomiting blood. CJ had immediately changed his reservations, and since he didn't have time to meet Alicia, he had called a florist and sent a dozen roses and a note of apology to her at the restaurant where they had planned to dine. Now he was landing at LAX, and he prayed his unique skills had not been needed.  
  
As soon as he was able, he called the hospital to check on Steve's condition again. To his immense relief, he was told his uncle was resting comfortably. An endoscopic exam had revealed a tear in the esophagus, which his uncle Jesse had been able to cauterize through the scope. Steve also had two ulcers, one in the stomach, and one in the duodenum. The culture for H. pylori was positive, but the biopsy was negative for cancer. Steve was NPO for the next few days, but he had been fitted with a feeding tube and would begin enteral feeding in the morning. In spite of the positive reports, CJ decided he really wanted to check in on his uncle before he went home. So, as he left the parking lot at LAX, he turned the car toward Community General Hospital.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Tim, why would she be heading into the hospital at ten thirty at night?" The more Solomon thought about Dr. Bentley-Wagner's late arrival at the hospital, the more confused he got.  
  
"At the afternoon meeting, they said Chief Sloan was sick and would be in the hospital for a while," Brown said. "Maybe she's going in to check on him."  
  
"Maybe, but at ten thirty?"  
  
"They are good friends."  
  
"I suppose."  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily/Amanda turned the light over the Chief's bed to its lowest setting and studied the man for a moment. The poor guy looked at least ten years older than he had when he'd hired her, and she couldn't help feeling guilty over the possibility that she had put him here. He was sleeping so peacefully that she was loath to wake him, but she knew she had no choice.  
  
Shaking him gently, she said, "Chief? Chief!"  
  
Steve woke grudgingly. I couldn't be morning yet, could it? He glanced toward the window. It was still dark outside.  
  
"Amanda?" She looked him in the eye. Green-gold eyes. He drew in a hiss of breath. "Emily!" he whispered. "What the *hell* are you doing here?"  
  
She gave him a lopsided grin and asked, "How'd you know it was me?"  
  
"You have your mother's eyes."  
  
  
  
  
  
Amanda Bentley-Wagner hung up the phone and got out of bed with a moan. A local big shot had just been murdered, and as the county's chief medical investigator, she had been called to the crime scene to give the public the impression that the police had their best people working on the case. From the sound of things, the case was so open and shut, a trained monkey could have handled it, but appearance was everything in politics, and certain politically motivated people in the police department and the DA's office wanted it to appear that they had gone beyond the call to get the killer. She knew she was just a pawn in a big, fat game, but she loved her work and was willing to live with occasionally being a political tool in order to spend the rest of her time helping ordinary people get justice.  
  
After she threw on her clothes, she grabbed the FBI tracking device Ron had asked her to wear so they could distinguish her from the disguised Emily whenever the facial recognition program registered a hit. Then she kissed her sleeping husband goodbye, left him a note, and headed to the crime scene.  
  
  
  
  
  
CJ paused in the doctor's parking lot. There was a strange car in his mother's spot. He looked at it half with annoyance for taking her place, and half with admiration. It was an old Dodge Viper, from around the beginning of the millennium if he wasn't mistaken. He circled it once, just to get a good look, then headed in to check on his Uncle Steve.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Ok, sir," Emily agreed, "If Moretti goes for it, I'll contact Mama sometime tomorrow and get the ball rolling, but if for any reason I feel I can't trust Commander Banks, the whole thing is off, and you'll have to find another way to get Leigh Ann and her pals."  
  
"Fair enough, Lieutenant. Now get out of here before someone else ID's you."  
  
"I'll leave as soon as you're sleeping again, sir."  
  
"You're almost as bad as your mother, you know that?"  
  
"Runs in the family, I guess, sir." There was a moment of silence, then Emmy said, "Uh, sir?"  
  
"If you want me to sleep, you need to be quiet," Steve gently chided her.  
  
"Yes, sir. I just wanted to say I'm sorry for being such a pain in the ass, sir."  
  
"Don't worry about it, Lieutenant. You'll get what you've got coming when this is all over."  
  
"Yes, sir," Emmy said glumly.  
  
"Now be quiet and let me sleep."  
  
"Yes, sir. Good night, sir."  
  
She waited until she heard his breathing deepen and even out. Then she gently brushed the hair out of his eyes, cut the light, and slipped out of the room.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Tim…"  
  
"What, Solomon?" Brown was getting annoyed and he let it show in his voice.  
  
"Dr. Bentley-Wagner's locator is moving."  
  
"So?"  
  
"It's in Valley, Tim, and she's still at the hospital."  
  
"Oh, shit!"  
  
  
  
  
  
Emily/Amanda slipped out of the Chief's room and headed for the elevator. She got as far as the nurses' station when it opened and deposited Dr. CJ Bentley-Wagner at the end of the hall.  
  
'Couldn't find a tougher sell if I was looking for one,' she thought. 'Too far from the stairs to slip off unnoticed, to close to the elevator not to keep going.' She stopped, turned, and asked the nurse for Steve Sloan's chart. If her disguise wasn't up to this test, she'd find out soon enough if her workout was. She remembered from reading his bio on the CGH web page that CJ Bentley-Wagner had run for the UCLA track team in college. He was still fit, as far as she could tell, but he was also about ten years older and at least fifty pounds heavier than she was, and she had inherited her dad's long-legged, ground eating stride.  
  
She figured if she couldn't con him, she could outrun him.  
  
"Hey, Mom." CJ said tiredly.  
  
She pretended to be absorbed in the chart.  
  
"Mom?"  
  
"Oh, hey," she could feel him watching her expectantly as she continued to study the chart. Looking up, she said, "What?"  
  
"What do you mean 'what'? No, 'Hi, how are you? Did you enjoy Chicago? How was the conference?'"  
  
Not knowing if she called him 'son', or used a nickname, she settled for the name he used on the website. "I'm sorry, CJ, I'm just concerned about your Uncle Steve."  
  
"Has his condition deteriorated?"  
  
'Good,' Emily thought, 'occupy his mind with someone else.' "I don't think so," Amanda said. "I just worry, you know?"  
  
CJ smiled, then and said, "I know. We all do."  
  
Amanda smiled back. "So, hi, CJ, how are you? How was the conference? Did you enjoy Chicago?"  
  
"Hello, Mom," her son grinned back. "I'm fine, and the conference was great. I loved Chicago, though I'd rather wait until August to visit. In March, it's much too cold." He pretended to shiver. "You'll never guess who I met there," he added excitedly.  
  
Emily should have simply said no, but in all her life, she had only known five people from Chicago, her mother's friends at Chicago Hope Hospital, and that number was down to four now that Phillip Watters had passed on, so she pretended to guess. "Umm, Alicia Geiger?"  
  
When CJ's Jaw dropped, she mentally kicked herself.  
  
"*How* did you *know*?"  
  
How the hell *did* she know? Oh, yeah!  
  
"Mother's intuition," she said with a smile. "You're a vascular surgeon. She's a vascular surgeon. She's in Chicago, and you went to Chicago. She's very good at what she does, and I thought, 'Who else is there in Chicago that my son would be so excited about meeting?' Her name was the first to come to mind. So, did you enjoy making her acquaintance?"  
  
The young man blushed. "I was about to make more than just her acquaintance…"  
  
"That is more than I need to know, CJ."  
  
He looked at her crossly. "We were just going to have dinner, Mother, but I checked my messages, and you had called about Uncle Steve, so I booked the next flight home."  
  
"I'm sorry to have ruined your plans, CJ. He's really doing much better now."  
  
"That's ok, Mom." CJ studied his mother; there was something different about her. The black trousers and mustard colored shirt over the black turtleneck were new to him, but there was something else. "I sent her some flowers and an apology explaining what had happened. It'll be ok. Like Ron says, 'Always leave 'em wanting more'."  
  
She rolled her eyes and laughed slightly.  
  
CJ was surprised not to get a rise out of her with that. He knew the expression annoyed her no end. Something was wrong. Now he realized that her clothes were slightly disheveled. No one else was likely to notice the wrinkles and creases, they were so few, but his mother was an immaculate dresser, and, come to think of it, that color was out this year.  
  
"Mom? You ok?"  
  
She yawned tremendously, then. "Just tired, I guess."  
  
"I see, and what are you doing here so late anyway?"  
  
Emily/Amanda stuck to her story. "I forgot this file I need first thing in the morning when I meet with Chief Archer. I decided to check in on Steve since I was here."  
  
CJ knew there was definitely something wrong, now. *His* mother *never* forgot anything. She was the most organized person he had ever met. He was determined now to wheedle it out of her.  
  
"Look, Mom, I don't like the idea of you driving home alone this late at night. It *is* almost eleven, and I see someone took your parking space near the door. Let me give you a lift, then I can crash at home tonight."  
  
Emily resisted the chance to make a quick getaway. Amanda Bentley-Wagner had to have been headstrong and independent to get where she was, and she wouldn't be too eager to accept the offer like a damsel in distress.  
  
"I'll be fine, CJ. I'm ok to drive home, you don't need to give me a ride."  
  
"I want to, Mom," he said sincerely. "In fact, I insist."  
  
She was about to protest when another yawn interrupted her.  
  
"Well?"  
  
"Ok, ok," she finally surrendered. "Meet me in the path lab after you've looked in on your uncle. I have a few overnight tests running in there that I might as well check on since I'm here."  
  
"All right," he agreed, "I'll be down in a few minutes."  
  
  
  
  
  
Ron rolled over and caught the phone halfway through the second ring. His wife had already been called out to some big shot's murder, and he'd drifted off to a light sleep while she was still getting dressed. Now he supposed it was his turn.  
  
"Wagner here."  
  
"Agent Solomon, here, sir. We think Emily Stephens is at Community General Hospital masquerading as your wife again, sir."  
  
"My wife was called to a murder scene not long ago, are you sure it isn't her?"  
  
"She was spotted at the hospital almost an hour ago, sir, but her locator is just arriving there now, after having gone to the Valley."  
  
"Why the hell did you wait an hour to call me?"  
  
  
  
  
  
"Mom?" CJ said with a puzzled frown as he found his mother in scrubs, performing an autopsy on a fresh body in the path lab.  
  
"Hi, honey, how was Chicago? Did you enjoy the conference?"  
  
As his mother's warm brown eyes met his, CJ suddenly knew what was wrong when he'd spoken to her upstairs. 


	16. Set 'Em Up

(Chapter 16. Brentwood, GCH, Roger Gorini's office, safe house. March 18.)  
  
Leigh Ann looked around. Lieutenant Stephens' phone was ringing and no one seemed inclined to answer it. Oddly, the house seemed less than crowded. Most of the comers and goers were gone for once. The Drs. Sloan, all three of them, were at the hospital. The Chief's wife and son were working, and his dad was sitting with him, or so Leigh Ann had heard. Dr. Travis was at the restaurant with his daughter. Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner was finishing up an autopsy on a local city contractor who had been shot the night before, and her son Dr. CJ Bentley-Wagner had called earlier to make plans with his brother and father for the evening, now that he was back from his conference in Chicago. Leigh Ann envied the close bond the Chief had with his dad, and the strong relationships he and his friends had with their children. She had barely known her father when her mother had taken her away to New York, and while her stepfather had been a good man, he just wasn't Daddy.  
  
Commander Banks had taken over the task force since the Chief had been hospitalized, and she was in a meeting in the den with Agent Wagner and Captains Cioffi and Bentley-Wagner. Charles Donovan was out with Hannah Wagner and her immunometer chasing down the latest hits on the Lieutenant's profile, and Art Cioffi was in the dining room, poring over information, trying to figure out what to do next. The Lieutenant's parents, very hospitable hosts, indeed, were in the kitchen, fixing something wonderful for lunch, if the smell was any indication.  
  
The phone was still ringing. Leigh Ann finally picked it up.  
  
"Stephens' residence."  
  
"Mama?" Wailed an anguished voice.  
  
"Emily?" Leigh Ann fairly shouted, and snapping her fingers, pointed from Cioffi to the door of the den. The young man crossed the room and went in.  
  
"So cold. I want my mama! It hurts. Ohhhhh!" The voice at the other end of the line sounded terrified and in considerable pain.  
  
Leigh Ann waved Olivia over. Then she heard a man's voice on the line.  
  
"This is Giancarlo Moretti. Who're you?" Leigh Ann could hear the woman crying in the background.  
  
"My name's Leigh Ann. I'm Chief Sloan's assistant, Mr. Moretti. Let me give the phone over to Commander Banks." As Leigh Ann spoke, she could hear the man trying to soothe the woman.  
  
"No. I want to talk to Sloan."  
  
Cheryl took the phone from Leigh Ann, then. The crowd, if seven could be called a crowd, waited tensely as they listened to her end of the conversation. Leigh Ann and Olivia stood off to the side whispering.  
  
"This is Banks…Chief Sloan is unavailable, but I assure you I can handle all of your needs myself…No, Mr. Moretti, he's not going to be available for quite some time…I see…Yes, Mr. Moretti, we can protect you…You say she's ill?…Yes, I agree. It does sound like she needs medical attention…*No*, Mr. Moretti, I am *not* lying to you. Chief Sloan is…incapacitated…Her mother?…Yes, she's here…ok…"  
  
Covering the receiver, Cheryl handed the phone to Olivia, saying, "Emily's ill. She told Moretti the only people she can trust are you, her dad, and Steve. He wants to talk to you."  
  
Olivia looked horrified and frightened, but to her credit, she nodded, took a deep breath, and accepted the phone.  
  
"This is Olivia Stephens, Mr. Moretti. What do you need me to do?"  
  
As Olivia listened, her breathing became ragged. Finally, she spoke again, her voice deceptively calm.  
  
"I want to talk to my daughter…Emmy? Oh, baby, Mama's here." Tears sprang to Liv's eyes. "I'll take care of you soon…Take deep breaths, baby, don't panic, and drink lots of fluids…Daddy and I love you sweetheart, and I promise we'll help you…Ok, I'll talk to him…Don't worry Em, I'll convince him…"  
  
After a pause, Liv started talking again, and despite her tears, her voice had steel behind it. "Mr. Moretti, what you have described sounds like the early stages of the BioGen virus infection Emily had a few years ago. It is deadly, and if she is having a relapse, you have to get her to the nearest hospital *now*."  
  
She listened a moment, then said, "Chief Sloan *can't* come to the phone. He's not here, and he won't *be* here for at least a week and a half. My daughter will be dead by the end of the day if you don't get her help now, and if that happens, I will come after you myself. I trust Commander Banks with Emmy's life. *Please*…" Her strength left her and her voice broke. It took her a moment to regain her composure. "Please let Commander Banks help you both…Ok, here she is, and tell Emmy that her daddy and I love her."  
  
Cheryl took the phone and headed to the den. "Moretti, I have an address for you. If you can get Emily there, we'll take her to the hospital." As the door shut behind her, she could be heard saying, "Yes, I can absolutely guarantee the place is secure…"  
  
Leigh Ann hid a secret smile as she comforted the Lieutenant's distraught parents.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Two weeks! Maribeth, the trial is in ten days."  
  
"I know, Steve. Jesse, Olivia, and I have been talking. *If* you are a good patient, *if* you cooperate, take all your meds, practice the stress management exercises we show you, and *if* you show improvement, we'll let you attend the trial for Moretti's testimony, closing arguments, and the verdict."  
  
"Oh, goody," he said sarcastically. "Do I get a sucker, too?"  
  
"Keep that attitude, and we'll keep you here for the entire six weeks' course of antibiotics."  
  
Steve looked to his father, "Dad…"  
  
"Don't drag me into it, Steve," Mark said, pulling back and holding up his hands in a defensive posture. "I happen to think they're right."  
  
Tanis arched an eyebrow at him and said, "As of yesterday, you were on six weeks' medical leave, Steve. You might as well give over now as later."  
  
"Tanis, that isn't necessary, I'm ok. I just needed some rest."  
  
Chief Archer continued as if she hadn't been interrupted. "I suspect if I were to investigate what you were doing at Mann's Chinese Theatre, *Deputy* Chief Sloan, I would find that your 'good Samaritan' was actually a fugitive. If that were the case, I could suspend you indefinitely pending further investigation, maybe even charge you. I would suggest you follow your wife's advice."  
  
Steve narrowed his eyes and sulked. "You know who it was, Archer."  
  
"Yes, I do. Please, don't make me prove it, because then, I'd have to do something about it."  
  
Steve fingered the NG-tube and squirmed as he felt it inside him. Every time it was bumped or shifted, the feeling made his skin crawl, but he just couldn't leave the damned thing alone. "How long do I have to keep this?"  
  
Maribeth sighed, knowing how Steve was going to react. "A week," she told him. "Then Jesse will do another gastroscopy, and if everything looks ok, we'll take it out and slowly get you back on a regular diet."  
  
"A week! Maribeth, I plan to stay here two or three days at the most, just enough to get my strength back. Then I'm leaving, even if it is against medical advice. When Gaudino's in jail, Moretti's in protective custody, and Emily's…situation is settled, I'll check myself back in, and you can do what you will to me, but, day after tomorrow at the latest, I'm gone."  
  
"Then you might as well go straight to Olivia, because I don't *want* you coming home."  
  
"Maribeth!" Steve was clearly shocked at his wife's suggestion. Then he winced in pain as he felt his stomach wash with acid.  
  
"Dad, Chief," Maribeth said with deadly calm as she looked from Mark to Tanis, "could you give us a minute?"  
  
"We'll be back later," Mark said, and he took Tanis by the arm and led her away.  
  
"But, Mark…" Tanis said.  
  
"Don't worry, honey, every couple years they have a row like this. Lasts an hour or two, then they make up and it's all right. I think they just do it to shake the cobwebs loose."  
  
"But…"  
  
"Come on. I'll buy you a coffee."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Rogelio, I'ma just-a so worried about-a your Uncle-a Vinnie."  
  
Roger Gorini grinned smugly. "Mama, you tell Uncle Vinnie all his problems gonna be over by the end of the day."  
  
"You mean that, Rogelio?"  
  
"Mama, I'd bet my life on it." With a chill, Gorini realized that's exactly what he was doing.  
  
  
  
  
  
"Maribeth…" Steve softened his tone, hoping to plead his case with her.  
  
"No, Steve!" She cut him off. "You don't know how many times I have been ready to leave you over the past thirty years. Well, if you don't listen to me, this might be the one time I actually follow through."  
  
"Maribeth…"  
  
"I mean it, Steve. I can't stand to see you run yourself into the ground over and over again! You don't bounce back like you used to, and it just worries me sick. So, if you want to check out of this hospital, you go right ahead, but don't come home to me. I'm a damned good doctor, Steve, but I'm not a miracle worker, and that's what you're going to need if you don't give yourself time to heal now. So, you go ahead and check out. Go right on over to Olivia. I hear she's done wonders for you in the past."  
  
"Is that what this is about? Olivia?"  
  
"No," Maribeth insisted. "This is about us. It's about you killing yourself and me not being able to do a thing about it. Every so often, you get a case that swallows you up, Steve. You don't eat, you don't sleep, you go out on that damned beach and you run for hours, and you don't talk to me. I get to watch you drive yourself to the brink of exhaustion. Then, when it's all over and you are worn to a frazzle, I am supposed to carry on with you like it never happened. I've gotten so tired of that over the years, but I have put up with it, because I love you that much, but, sweetheart, this time it's different."  
  
"Why is it different, Maribeth?"  
  
"Because this time, Steve, you pushed too hard, and when you finally…dropped…*she* was there for you…and I wasn't."  
  
"It's ok, honey, I know you were in surgery. I'm not angry over that. It was unavoidable."  
  
"Oh, get over yourself, Steve. This isn't about you." After a moment of silence, angry on her part, confused on his, she continued. "Do, you know why I've stayed with you all these years?"  
  
Grinning, hoping to lighten the mood, he asked, "Irresistible charm and good looks?"  
  
Maribeth smiled. He did indeed have that. Then her face turned to stone again. "No. Do you remember the earthquake in 2005?"  
  
Steve's smile faded. "How could I forget?"  
  
"I was so frightened, Steve. It was my first earthquake, my first disaster of any magnitude. I was terrified. For three days and nights, I didn't know if you were alive or dead. I saw your dad every now and again at the hospital, and I knew Steven was ok, Jesse and Amanda were there, but no one had heard from you. All I needed, all I wanted, was to feel your strong arms around me and to hear you tell me we'd all be ok, Steve, and you weren't there."  
  
"Maribeth…"  
  
"No, Steve, you had a job to do, and I don't begrudge you that. I was proud of you then, and I still am today. I have stayed with you all these years because of what happened when I found you in the tent, Steve. I saw you sitting there, and I thought you would just wrap your arms around me and make it all better."  
  
Steve reached out for his wife as her tears started to fall, but she pulled away.  
  
"You didn't make it all better, but when you clung to me, crying like a frightened child, I knew you *needed* me, Steve, and that knowledge made me strong. My hero, the man who was supposed to make the world safe and the road smooth, needed *me*. The next day, when you went out there again to start putting this city back together, I worried, but I knew you'd be all right, because you knew I'd be there when you came home. And that's how it's been all these years, Steve. That's why I've stayed, because you make me stronger by needing me. Then yesterday, she was here, and you didn't need me, and all my strength was gone."  
  
She stood before him, breathing hard and trembling, clearly overwrought  
  
"Maribeth, come here." His voice was gently commanding. She came and sat beside him on the bed. Not content with that, he took her by the arm, pulled her down beside him, and wrapped her in his arms. She nestled her head against his shoulder, all of her fight gone.  
  
He kissed her hair, and said, "I needed you yesterday, Maribeth, and the day before that, and the whole thirty years before that. I needed you for a lifetime before I ever knew you. I need you today, and I will need you tomorrow, and for an eternity of tomorrows after that. I will need you until our bones dry up and turn to dust in the wind, because you are my strength. It just so happens that yesterday, that kid on the motorcycle needed you, not more than I did, because no one could need you more than I do, but he needed you more urgently, so I made do with the friends I had close by."  
  
"But, Steve, you did what she said without a fight. You never acquiesce, Steve. Even when you had your heart attack, you fought us until the moment you coded. Why did you give in so easily with her? Why do you trust her judgment more than mine? What does she have that I don't?"  
  
"Maribeth," he told her, "that has nothing to do with you or Olivia, and everything to do with…history."  
  
When his wife made a confused little sound, he tried to explain.  
  
"When Olivia came into my life, she was the only person in the world who could do what she did for me." Then he told his wife the same story he told her thirty years ago when she'd found his box of mementos. He told her about the shooting that should have crippled him. The experimental treatment Liv had been developing, and the study she had gotten permission to begin that very day. He told her about the promise Liv had made him that he would get better, and all the little doodads and gadgets she had developed to help make him more comfortable while he was in the hospital and in physical therapy.  
  
Then he told her more. He explained how Olivia's gentle insistence had helped him get past the self-consciousness he'd felt about the ugly scars his injuries had left behind, and how he'd learned from her that nothing is ugly when seen through the eyes of love. He told her how, even after all she'd lost—her family, friends, and lover—Liv had still trusted God to protect him in his dangerous job, and by the power of that faith, she was strong enough to love him, in spite of the risk of losing him. She had trusted God to guide both of them, and, when Ted, an old friend suffering from mental illness who had stalked and threatened her for years, had died in her arms after Steve had shot him in her defense, she had forgiven the dying man, and more importantly, convinced him that God would forgive him, too.  
  
"And somewhere along the way, Maribeth, she taught me the kind of faith I hadn't known since before my mom died. I learned to believe again that someone was actually listening to my prayers. I remembered what it felt like to know, deep inside, that, whatever happened, God was there to take care of me, and He would give me everything I ever needed. If it hadn't been for that faith, Maribeth, I think I would have been too afraid of being alone to have let her marry Keith. When she chose him, she promised me I'd find the love of my life one day, and sure enough, when I was ready to…fall in love again, you were there."  
  
Maribeth giggled softly, "To catch you."  
  
"Yes, well, your lap looked much softer than the floor would have been. Maribeth, I don't think she's smarter than you, or a better doctor than you, but almost from the day I met her, I knew she had a connection to…something protective…that is there just for me. I trust Liv because she trusts God, and I have seen Him work through her. He used her to give me the start to this wonderful life I have with you. I don't know why she and Emily have been brought into my life now." Ok, that was a half-truth, he had a strong suspicion why Emily was there, but the time still wasn't right to mention that. "But I do know there is some kind of destiny there, and I have to follow it."  
  
Maribeth turned slightly, cuddled closer, and looked up at him. "Even if it takes you away from me?"  
  
He smiled down at her. "It will never, ever do that, sweetheart. I promise."  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti looked at Emily and grinned, "Now, I see where ya get your acting talent. Your mama's good."  
  
Emily smiled back proudly, but said modestly, "She does all right. Now, let's rock and roll."  
  
"Ya got your toy?"  
  
Emmy held up a small black box with an antenna at one end and a USB connection at the other and said, "Yep. This will lead them right to us, when we're ready."  
  
Emily let Moretti drive the Viper to a parking garage in Venice where she then 'borrowed' a second vehicle. They had decided they would arrive at and leave from the safe house in the new vehicle, to keep anyone, including the cops from knowing about the Viper. A couple miles from the safe house, they hid the Viper in an alley, and Moretti took over driving the new car, an ancient PT Cruiser. Emily handed him a forty-five automatic, which he shoved in his waistband, then she huddled up in the passenger seat, wrapped in a blanket, with a nine millimeter concealed beneath her sweatshirt, and started to look sick. By the time they arrived, she was fully in character.  
  
  
  
  
  
Steve shifted uncomfortably in bed. "Dad, what time is it?"  
  
Mark looked at his watch and said, "About seven thirty, son, why?"  
  
"It's started." He winced as acid flooded his stomach.  
  
Mark saw the pain on his son's face, and upped the medication on his IV.  
  
  
  
  
  
Moretti pulled up to the two car garage and gave the agreed upon signal. Two long blasts of the horn, two short taps, and another long blast, and the right hand door went up. He pulled in and the door went down again. Behind the left hand door was an ambulance. Immediately, cops and paramedics rushed the vehicle.  
  
"Mr. Moretti," Agent Wagner said warmly as he approached the car, "It's good to see you again. Won't you please come into the house?"  
  
Moretti narrowed his eyes and said, "Cut the crap, Wagner. I know you got no care for me but what I can say to put Gaudino away. Knowin' what happened with the team you put together for Em, I doubt you care much more for her. I ain't leavin' this car 'til I know she's taken care of." Emmy's plan had been for them to remain in the safety of the car as long as possible.  
  
"Look, Moretti…"  
  
"Stuff it, Wagner."  
  
A young paramedic was trying to lift Emily out of the car, and in her delirium, she flattened him.  
  
"Mama!"  
  
Cheryl stepped forward and tried to soothe her. "Shh, Emmy. This is Commander Banks. Your mama's waiting at the hospital. She has everything there ready to take care of you." Emmy continued to thrash about, but stopped her wailing. Her grip when Cheryl took her hand, was like a vise. There was a tinkling of glass, then, and Cheryl grunted, moaned softly, and slumped to the floor, unconscious, blood trailing down the side of her face, as the bullet buried itself in the ceiling of the car inches from Moretti's head.  
  
"SHIT!" Moretti yelled. "Wagner, you better get 'em all."  
  
Moretti started the engine and threw the car into reverse as the young paramedic pulled Commander Banks away from the wheels. His partner tried to get Emmy, but she was still deliriously uncooperative, and in the next moment, amid shattering glass and gunfire, Moretti tore out of the garage, bursting through the door and executing a fast three-point turn in the street. When bullets started thudding into the side of the car, Moretti pulled out his gun and fired back, the loud crack of his forty-five providing an emphatic reply to the soft pops of the silenced weapons his pursuers were using. When he heard a yell, he hollered back, "Serves ya right, ya bastard!" Then he flew off into the night. 


	17. And Knock 'Em Down

(Chapter 17. Safe house, CGH, other places in and around LA. March 18.)  
  
"Did you get a look at Commander Banks? How bad was she? I couldn't tell, I was too busy playing sick." Emily asked as she and Moretti moved from the PT Cruiser to the Viper.  
  
"Dunno. She took it in the head an' dropped like a sack of stones."  
  
"Shit!"  
  
Emmy pulled out a cell phone and punched in a number. Moretti laughed aloud. At Emmy's furious look, he said, "Sorry, Em. I'm worried about Banks, too. When I talked to her today on the phone, she seemed ok, for a cop. It's just." He trailed off. It wasn't as funny as it had been a moment ago.  
  
"Just what?"  
  
"Well, how many cell phones *do* you have?"  
  
"Oh, four with me, and at least a dozen more back at the house."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I steal as many as I can every time I'm out and about. You can only use each one once, or the cops can track you. If I have to make a lot of calls, I need several phones."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Now," she told Moretti, "I'm calling the hospital. When they answer, ask for Dr. Travis, either Dr. Sloan, or either Dr. Bentley-Wagner in that order. Whoever you get, raise some hell about the breach of security, tell them Commander Banks was shot, and tell them you'll be calling back in one hour to talk to my mother about her condition. Tell them they need to get their act together if they ever want to see you again. And remember I'm sick."  
  
Moretti nodded, Emmy pressed the send button, and he completed the call.  
  
  
  
Cheryl moaned in pain as the young paramedic pressed a heavy gauze pad to her head wound and put her hand over it to hold it in place. "Thanks, Jim."  
  
"It's just a graze, but you're going to have to get it stitched up. You were lucky." He went to stow his gear in the ambulance.  
  
"Lucky?" She called after him. "Lucky to be shot in the head?"  
  
"Lucky to be shot in the head and still have all your brains inside it," Dion said, as he entered the garage. "One of the shooters was a SWAT sniper with a high powered rifle. He and another of them are known associates of Rossi's. There were five in all. Two are dead, one's in very shaky condition. I doubt he'll last long enough to make a statement. Two surrendered without a fight, but they've already asked for their lawyers. We can't even question them."  
  
"All out of your division?" Ron asked.  
  
Dion nodded dejectedly, "Yeah."  
  
"What else have you got?"  
  
As Dion turned to speak to Ron, Cheryl snapped, "Captain! Unless you have taken a job with the FBI, you report to me!"  
  
Both men turned to look at her, taken aback by the outburst. Cheryl was usually congenial and cooperative, and this territorial attitude was out of the ordinary for her. To their relief, she put a finger to her lips, winked and nodded, mouthing the words, 'Yes, ma'am,' to Dion. Then she gave Ron the small black box Emily had pressed into her hand as she clutched it in her delirium.  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Dion responded, sounding suitably chastened.  
  
As Jim and his partner came round to load her into the ambulance, she pointed to the black box in Ron's hand and said, "You two take care of things here, ASAP, then head to the hospital to brief me."  
  
"Yes, ma'am," Dion replied again.  
  
  
  
"Rogelio, your mama told me you said my problems would be over by the end of the day. I would hate to have to tell her you were wrong."  
  
Gorini started to sweat. His Uncle Vinnie could make threatening conversation about the weather.  
  
"The day isn't over," he said with a nervous laugh. "Give me until morning."  
  
Vinnie Gaudino thought a moment. Roger could tell he was thinking because he heard his heavy breathing. Vinnie Gaudino was clever, and a very smart man in his area of expertise, but serious thinking was always quite an effort for him.  
  
"Rogelio, you or Moretti. One of you will not be breathing at sunrise."  
  
"I'll get him, Uncle Vinnie."  
  
"I hope so, Rogelio. You're a good boy, and my sister, your mother, loves you very much. It would break my heart to tell her you had a tragic accident."  
  
  
  
When Maribeth arrived to check on Steve at around nine pm, she found Cheryl, Dion, Ron, and Liv in his room. Ron was scanning the room looking for listening devices, and a very tired looking Olivia was sitting a little too comfortably on the bed beside Steve, though she did have the courtesy to get up and move to the other side of the bed when Maribeth came in.  
  
"Is this what you call resting?" she asked Steve.  
  
"Babe, they'll be out of here in half an hour. They just stopped by to update me on the situation."  
  
"Steve, I don't care if they stopped to bring you flowers and chocolates, you are supposed to be resting." In a tone that included the whole group, she said simply, "Out, now."  
  
Dion got up to go.  
  
"Dion, stay," Steve insisted. "Maribeth, I have rested all day, and I am getting damned sick of it! Even Dad was getting bored and had Steven take him home at the end of his shift. I have also been worrying about Emily and Moretti all day." At her incredulous look, he said, "I'm not just saying this to con you. I really will rest better when I know how things went and what's coming next."  
  
"We're clear," Ron said.  
  
Steve looked imploringly at his wife, and she finally relented. "Ok, thirty minutes," she said, sitting on the bed beside him in the space Liv had just vacated. Looking at Liv, she noticed deep lines of fatigue in the other woman's face, and realized that for the first time, she looked her age. For a moment, Maribeth felt meanly pleased that Liv was actually looking old, then she squashed a sudden flash of guilt with righteous indignation that Liv was paying so much attention to Steve.  
  
"Where's your husband?" she asked.  
  
The slight emphasis on 'your' put such a charge in the air, Cheryl was surprised the lights didn't short out. The men didn't even seem to notice.  
  
Olivia stifled a yawn and crossed her arms over her chest. She was clearly exhausted. "He's at Em's house, with young 'Fredo Cioffi and Charles Donovan, trying to anticipate what Emmy will need, so we can wrap this mess up. Moretti called, demanding to talk to me here in one hour."  
  
"At my husband's bedside?"  
  
Olivia gave her a calm, even stare, and said placidly, "At the hospital. I knew Cheryl and Dion would be briefing Steve, so I decided to come here to get the whole story."  
  
"So," Maribeth said, fixing her husband with a look he didn't quite comprehend, "what is the 'whole' story."  
  
Steve shrugged and looked to Dion, who looked to Ron who looked to Cheryl, who looked around the room before addressing Ron and Dion. "First of all, guys, I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier, but it occurred to me that if the men who attacked the safe house knew about it before we used it, they could have bugged it. I didn't want their cronies to have any clue what had happened there or what we knew about them, little as it may be."  
  
Ron and Dion nodded. Steve said, "Good thinking."  
  
"Thanks." Turning to Liv, Cheryl continued, "The hospital phone lines are clean. They're going to patch Moretti's call through to you here."  
  
Liv agreed, "I'll tell him you're ok, and if you're here, I'll give the phone over to you."  
  
"Good." Now Cheryl turned to Maribeth. "Understand this. Except for Emily, Moretti, and Keith, no one outside this room knows what's really going on. Even the paramedics at the scene and the back up Dion and I called in don't really know why they were there tonight. We think we are this close," she held her thumb and forefinger less than an inch apart, "to closing up all the mafia leaks in the LAPD as well as the local offices of the FBI, and the Witness Protection Program, but if anything leaks out, this sting will fall down like the house of cards that it is."  
  
Looking at Cheryl, the tall, blonde doctor pursed her lips, narrowed her eyes, and said, "I can keep a secret."  
  
  
  
  
  
Keith sat in the armchair by the window, head in his hands, staring at his prosthetic feet. For the first time in thirty years, he felt inadequate because of his missing legs. If he had been whole, he could have been there when his daughter walked into the trap at the safe house to serve as bait. He got around all right, most of the time, and with the advances of recent years, he even had what passed for sensation from his feet and legs, which helped tremendously with his balance. On good days, his feet were even ticklish, a fact that delighted his wife no end. But when he was worried or upset, the increased firing in his synapses sometimes caused a 'short' in his brain's interpretation of the electrochemical signals coming from his feet. He knew, had he been there during the firefight, he would only have been a hindrance and a danger to the police and his daughter. The adrenaline rush would have caused anything from muscle spasms, to a complete loss of balance, to crippling, screaming-at-the-top-of-his-lungs pain.  
  
So, he was left to waiting, wondering, and going back over plowed ground with a couple of rookies to see if there was anything they missed. It wasn't hard for him to play the worried father, but he felt it best to withdraw as much as possible, because every lie he had to tell to continue the ruse stuck in his throat and put his precious baby at greater risk. He felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see the redheaded Officer Charles Donovan smiling down at him, offering him a cup of strong black coffee.  
  
"Thank you, Charles."  
  
Donovan nodded and said, "I'm sure she'll be all right, sir."  
  
Keith nodded back, "I hope so." He knew his daughter wasn't ill, but he was worried nonetheless. There were plenty of other dangers lurking round her right now.  
  
"She survived this bug once before, right? From what Hannah.uh, Miss Wagner has told me, if she is sick again, it shouldn't be as bad this time because her immune system already has antibodies to fight it."  
  
"That's what I understand, Charles, but the fact is, the BioGen virus is manmade, and no one really knows what it will do or how it will act."  
  
Worried brown eyes studied him closely, and Keith wished he could tell this young man the truth. Donovan and Cioffi had proven so reliable throughout this ordeal, he thought it unfair to leave them out of the loop now, but he also understood how important it was to keep the circle of those in the know as small as possible. One slip, one careless word could endanger his daughter, and as much as he liked and trusted the young men, he wasn't willing to take that risk.  
  
He gulped down his coffee, got out of the chair, and limped over to the table. Looking from Donovan to Cioffi, he said, "Ok, let's have at it again, gentlemen."  
  
  
  
Emily and Moretti pulled into a parking garage to steal another car. They were going to follow a plan similar to the one they had before. Moretti wanted an SUV, but Emmy refused, explaining that they were more likely to roll over, and if they had to do any fast driving, she didn't want to take that risk. Chuckling, Emmy decided to take an ancient Jeep instead. Frustrated, Moretti asked why.  
  
"I learned to drive in one of these," she said. "My mama bought it in bulk, Army surplus, and assembly required when she was sixteen. She and eight of her friends went together and bought each of themselves one and one for the auto mechanics teacher to pay him for the time he took to teach them how to assemble and maintain the cars. They formed a club and called themselves Cloud Nine and painted all the Jeeps with different colored clouds. Mama's was a god-awful pink. She still has it, sort of."  
  
"Sort of?"  
  
"Well, it's got about a million miles on it, and just about everything has been replaced at least once. It's still Mama's Jeep, I guess, but it's not the same Jeep."  
  
Moretti just laughed. "All the money your mama's got an' she keeps an old wreck around."  
  
Emmy looked at him defensively and said, "It's not an old wreck. Mama knows a lot about cars and she has always taken good care of it. She's had it over half a century, and there's only been one time the engine didn't crank on the first try."  
  
"Whatever, Em. A fifty-year-old Jeep is still just an old Jeep."  
  
"Not my Mama's. It's got sentimental value."  
  
Moretti just laughed.  
  
  
  
Ron had found a message scratched into the surface of the black box Emily had given Cheryl. "Plug me into a fully-charged laptop, turn it on, and wait."  
  
"I already played this once on the way over here," Ron said to Cheryl, "and I called Captain Cioffi at the station, telling him to have his men on standby. I told you about the important stuff, but I think you should see it for yourself."  
  
He hit the power button on the laptop, and a computer-generated caricature of Emmy appeared and spoke to them. It was a false-color image, mostly black and white, with the only color being the flame-red, wild curls and the gold-green eyes.  
  
"Hey, there," the image said in a passable imitation of Emily's voice. "I hope everything went ok, so far. I'm sorry to change the game on you now, but a thought came to me after Moretti talked to Mama at lunchtime. This other contact I have--the guy who hooked me up with Rossi, Marino, and Velasquez, blew Leigh Ann's cover, and by the time you see this, will have the baddies after me at your place--I think we could pull the same ruse on him twice. If there's gunfire at your safe house, Moretti's gonna call my contact and say he got the number from my cell phone's record of the last ten calls. He'll tell my contact what went down, pretend he thinks the guy is FBI or someone else waiting to help him, and ask for a safe place to stay. Soon as we know where we're going, I'll transmit to you, and you can send in backup." The caricature took on a pensive frown, then, with forced cheer and an attempt at a cavalier attitude, said, "I sure hope you're watching this, because if you aren't Moretti and I are dead meat."  
  
"So," Steve said summing it up neatly, "she's going to call her contact, and see if he's set up a safe house. If he has, she's going to use this to let us track her and bring in backup."  
  
Ron nodded. "Cioffi is back at the station. I'm going to get this thing rigged to transmit her position to him so can coordinate his men to back her up. Y'know, she really is a clever kid."  
  
"Too clever for her own good," Liv said, a muscle twitching in her jaw. "What if something had happened and her gizmo didn't work?"  
  
Maribeth felt a sudden flash of sympathy for the worried mother. She probably hadn't slept in days. Letting go of her jealousy for the moment, she said gently, "Don't think about that. Nothing went wrong."  
  
Olivia gave a derisive snort. "My daughter is out there, on the run from God alone knows who, and you say nothing went wrong. Hah."  
  
Maribeth looked apologetic, and said, "Well, nothing went wrong tonight."  
  
Olivia raised her voice, gold-green eyes flashing bright with anger despite the dark circles beneath them. "Two cops are dead, Maribeth! Dirty cops, yes, but still dead! Another is dying, Cheryl nearly had her brains blown out, we still don't have Leigh Ann because nobody's talking, and Emmy is still out there and planning to walk *right in* to another trap. Something most definitely *did* go wrong tonight!"  
  
She burst into tears.  
  
If Steve had had half a brain in his head, he would have just held her hand and spoken soothingly, but foolishly, he pulled her to him, down on the bed beside him and wrapped her in a comforting hug, the action causing him to unwittingly turn his back on his wife. "Shh," he hushed her. "It's gonna be ok, Liv. Emmy's a sharp kid, and she'll come through this just fine." He stroked her hair, rubbed her back, and let her snuggle against him, already fast asleep.  
  
"Son of a bitch," Maribeth muttered, and stalked out.  
  
Looking at the empty space where Maribeth had been, Steve said, "What's wrong with her?"  
  
"You, old friend," Ron said pointing to him, "are an idiot."  
  
Cheryl stifled a laugh and turned away, Dion covered his eyes and shook his head, Liv murmured in her sleep and snuggled closer.  
  
Steve looked down at the unruly mop of red curls spread out over his chest, gazed at the empty spot in the doorway through which his wife had just passed, and said, "Damn!" Then he sucked in a sharp breath of pain as his stomach started to burn.  
  
  
  
Emmy and Moretti were sitting in the stolen Jeep, hidden in a dark alley behind a disused warehouse. She took out yet another cell phone, and when Moretti stifled a chuckle, she rolled her eyes. She dialed the hospital and told him, "Remember, only talk to my mama."  
  
"Right."  
  
Emmy pushed send.  
  
  
  
Continuing to curse a blue streak under his breath, Steve carefully reached around Liv and disconnected his NG-tube from the feeding pump. Shuddering uncontrollably at the weird, intrusive sensations running through his body, he clamped off the tubes as he had seen the nurses do when they attached a new bag of feeding solution, and slipped carefully from Liv's embrace, putting his pillow between her arms to give her something to hold onto.  
  
As he tried to rise from the bed, Dion gently pushed him back down, but Steve pushed back.  
  
"Uncle Steve, she'll get even madder if you go wandering about in your condition."  
  
"Dion," Steve said through gritted teeth, trying his best to ignore the cramping in his stomach and the creepy-crawlers that went scurrying around under his skin every time the NG-tube moved. "Get out of my way or I will *knock* *you* *out*. I need to talk to my wife *right now*."  
  
Dion tried again to restrain him, but Ron placed a hand on the younger man's shoulder and said, "Let him go, son."  
  
Taking a deep breath, Dion nodded and moved aside.  
  
Steve shifted to a sitting position and used his IV pole to help himself stand up. Then he staggered sluggishly to the door of his room and looked up and down the hall for Maribeth. With his wife nowhere in sight, he decided to ask for her at the nurses' station, but as he set off in that direction, he heard the phone ring.  
  
Moretti was calling.  
  
There would be decisions to make.  
  
Liv might need him.  
  
Steve felt torn.  
  
  
  
Ron caught the phone halfway through the first ring. "This is Agent Wagner."  
  
"She's right here, Moretti, just a second." Ron covered the receiver and asked Liv. "You ready?"  
  
Instantly awake, Liv nodded. "Yes. Of course."  
  
She took the phone, and Dion saw her knuckles go white. He heard the tension in her voice and saw the fear in her gold-green eyes. He remembered his Uncle's failed wedding when he was a boy, all the people talking about how difficult her childhood had been, and how her whole family had died in a fire while she was off at a summer camp. He knew she was terrified of losing her child, probably more so than most parents because she had already lost so much, and had nearly lost her daughter twice in the past three years. This woman was in a fragile state, and she was going to need some help soon. He went off to the opposite corner of the room and used his cell phone to call the ER and have them send his Uncle Jesse up.  
  
"Mr. Moretti, this is Olivia Stephens, how is my daughter?"  
  
"Oh, thank God." Looking to the others, nearly fainting with relief, Olivia said, "She wasn't shot."  
  
"Commander Banks is ok, Mr. Moretti. She's right here if you want to talk to her."  
  
Cheryl took over the phone, and Olivia sank back onto the bed, curled up, and clutched the pillow, rocking herself slightly.  
  
Dion whispered into his cell phone, "Much more of this, Uncle Jess, and she's going to snap." As Cheryl made plans with Moretti, he noticed Olivia becoming even more distraught. "Maybe you should bring some kind of sedative. I'm going to call Keith."  
  
  
  
Steve heard Ron's voice, strong and commanding, "This is Agent Wagner."  
  
There were three people with Liv. Jess and Amanda were in the building if they were needed, and Keith was in Brentwood. Steve decided to go after his wife.  
  
He made his unsteady way to the nurses' station and asked the nearest young woman on duty, "Where's my wife?"  
  
She gave him the deer-in-the-headlights look and then glanced at her two companions who were sitting in the uneasy silence of those whose conversation had just been interrupted by the subject of their gossip. Steve grabbed her wrist, not tightly enough to hurt her, but just to get her attention and said again, giving each word the weight of a sentence, "Where's. My. Wife?"  
  
The girl looked at him a moment more, then pointed to a nearby door. "Supply room."  
  
"Thank. You." He gave each of the women a furiously indignant glare, then limped over to the door. He was so damned stiff from spending over twenty- four hours in bed. A man his age.he made a face as the phrase crossed his mind.just couldn't lay in bed for days on end if he wanted to continue walking. When.things.with Maribeth were settled, he would talk to Steven and Jesse about getting some more exercise while he was in the hospital.  
  
When he reached the door, Steve opened it and peeked inside. "Sweetheart?"  
  
A box of tongue depressors came sailing at his head, and he barely managed to duck out of the way. As it flew by, the lid came open, and dozens of little wooden paddles clattered to the floor. Screwing up his courage, he stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.  
  
  
  
Moretti snapped the phone shut, grinning, and said, "They're gonna give us everything they can as soon as they can get it to us."  
  
Emily just nodded.  
  
"What? Em, that's great! We're gonna have a freakin' army of cops backing us up."  
  
"Yeah," Emmy said, "and we have no idea which of them might 'accidentally' shoot us in the back for fifty grand."  
  
"Oh. Is there a plan B?"  
  
"Always." She smiled smugly.  
  
  
  
"Talk to them, in the den. We know it's clear. My dad checked it after Leigh Ann left today."  
  
"Ok. How's Liv?"  
  
"She's upset," Dion said, "You better come over here."  
  
"Ok. Talk to you later."  
  
Keith hung up the phone and asked Cioffi and Donovan to join him in the den. At least now, he didn't have to pretend with them.  
  
  
  
"Maribeth."  
  
This time a box of disposable latex gloves came sailing at him. Unable to duck in time, Steve batted them away with his arm. He continued to advance as his wife turned away, looking for something else to throw. When he was close enough, he gently wrapped his arms around her and held her tight.  
  
"Damn, you! Let me go," she hissed.  
  
But Steve could tell she didn't want him to let her go. Instead of struggling, she melted back into him, weeping.  
  
"Tell me what's wrong, baby."  
  
"As if you didn't know."  
  
"I think I do, Maribeth, but I think you'd feel better if you told me yourself."  
  
"You still love that.other woman!"  
  
He sat on a convenient shelf, pulled her back against him, between his legs, and settled her on his thigh, cradling her against his body, stroking her arms.  
  
"You've known that for thirty years, sweetheart."  
  
"But she wasn't here for thirty years!"  
  
"You were."  
  
"Oh, Steve, I don't know why I'm so jealous, but every time I see her, I just want to scratch her eyes out."  
  
She turned and threw her arms around his neck, sobbing loudly, now. He stiffened as she jostled the NG-tube, and she misinterpreted the body language.  
  
"Damn you, Steve Sloan! You're still *in* love with her," she wailed, pulling away from him.  
  
Steve grabbed his wife's wrist. He would not, could not, let her go now.  
  
"No! Maribeth, it's just the damned tube!" he shouted.  
  
She looked at him, wild-eyed, and began pounding and clawing at the hand wrapped around her wrist, bruising her knuckles and his, her fingernails tearing into his flesh and drawing blood.  
  
Shutting out the pain she caused, and the pain he was about to cause himself, he dropped to his knees on the hard tiled floor and looked up at her.  
  
"Maribeth, I'm begging you. Don't walk away from me," he pleaded. "Don't walk away from us. Don't walk away from the past thirty years."  
  
Her struggling had slowed, but it had not yet stopped.  
  
"Thirty, years, darling. You were here and she wasn't. I loved her, yes, as an old and very dear friend, but I didn't need her. I needed you. Please, Maribeth."  
  
Tears were slipping down Steve's cheeks, but he was not embarrassed. He was not ashamed to beg. He would prostrate himself on the floor at her feet if he had to, but he *would not* let *this* woman walk out of his life.  
  
"I thought of her often, yes, but I never called her, never wrote to her, never spoke of her, because I didn't need her. Through the earthquake and the riots, the drought, the scandals, my heart attack, through it all, the whole time, all I needed was you, Maribeth. If you leave, I will curl up right here on the floor and die, because without you, I have no reason to ever stand up again."  
  
She stopped struggling, but didn't move toward him.  
  
"Please, Maribeth," he whispered. "Stay with me."  
  
She stepped toward him and caressed his face with her fingertips, her touch so light it made him shiver. He turned his head and kissed her palm. The fingers of her other hand stroked his hair.  
  
"When did you ever get so gray?" she asked softly.  
  
  
  
"Who's this?" Moretti growled into the phone. Emily had her ear pressed to the phone beside his so she could follow the conversation.  
  
A calm, cultured voice answered. "Anyone who has this number knows who I am. Who are you?"  
  
Moretti paused, letting the voice think he was uncertain. When the voice sighed, Emmy cued Moretti to begin speaking again. "This is Giancarlo Moretti. You know what happened at the LAPD safe house?"  
  
"Oh, yes, Mr. Moretti. I'm *so* glad you called. How is Lieutenant Stephens?"  
  
"She ain't screamin' for her mama no more, but I think that's 'cause she's too sick to scream." He glanced to Emmy, and getting the thumbs up, he continued. "Look, I know she been callin' you a lot 'cause she's only got three numbers in her cell phone, this one, Sloan's, an' her answering service. I need help. Where can I go?"  
  
The voice tried to be warm and friendly, but it sounded far too pleased with itself.  
  
"I'm glad you asked, Mr. Moretti. I have recently found a nice place for you and the Lieutenant, but she hasn't called lately, so I haven't been able to tell her about it. It's in Culver City, close to Marina Del Rey. Would you like the address?"  
  
"Yeah, an' some protection, an' an ambulance for Stephens."  
  
  
  
"Maribeth?"  
  
"Hmm?" she continued stroking his hair.  
  
"I need some help. My knees are killing me, and I don't think I can stand up on my own."  
  
She chuckled softly and helped him to his feet.  
  
  
  
Donovan let out a low whistle. "That's a bold move, sir."  
  
"Just plain stupid, if you ask me," Keith said. Donovan and Cioffi exchanged confused glances as Keith continued. "See, Emmy's always liked living on the edge, and since she got so sick a couple years back, well, I get the feeling she either thinks she's indestructible or just doesn't give a damn any more."  
  
Cioffi said, "She's been daring all along, sir, but she's also been very careful. My dad says she's a good cop. She'll be ok."  
  
"I hope you're right, 'Fredo," Keith said.  
  
Donovan gave him a thump on the shoulder. "Don't worry, sir, we'll take care of her."  
  
Cioffi nodded, "We sure will."  
  
Keith smiled, thinking, 'Ah, the innocent exuberance of youth.' "Thanks, boys," he said. "Now, I need to get to the hospital to be with my wife. Dion says she's not handling this very well. Could one of you give me a ride? My prosthetics aren't working very well tonight."  
  
At the young men's puzzled looks, he pulled up his pant legs to reveal his artificial limbs. "Oh, come on, don't tell me you hadn't noticed." He knew very well they hadn't. For the past thirty years, Olivia had been regularly developing improvements for prosthetic limbs, both in appearance and function, and most people didn't even notice his when he was in shorts. This most recent set had a very lifelike polymer 'skin' with individual hairs implanted, and when someone pulled the hairs, it hurt.  
  
"No, sir," Donovan replied. "I noticed you limped, but I just thought it was age."  
  
"Oh, really?" As worried as he was, Keith couldn't resist teasing the young man.  
  
"Oh, not that you're old, sir, but you know, some people as they age.er.that is...ummm."  
  
Keith put up a hand to stop the young man in mid-stammer. "Relax, kid. You guys aren't old enough to remember the Six-Million-Dollar Man, are you?"  
  
They stared blankly.  
  
"Better.Stronger.Faster.?"  
  
They shook their heads.  
  
Keith slung his arm around Donovan's shoulders and said, "Give me a lift, and I'll tell you all about it."  
  
  
  
Emily and Moretti snuck up on the "safe" house her contact had provided. She wore a fanny pack that held a rag, a bottle of chloroform, a large suction cup, a glasscutter, and a roll of duct tape. Her nine-millimeter nestled comfortably in a shoulder holster, just in case. Moretti had the forty-five she had given him, still stuck in his belt. They had parked several blocks away and closed in on foot. She had linked her laptop to a GPS tracking device she wore on her belt and recorded their route as they traveled to the area. After a twenty-minute head start, the computer would transmit to the device she had given Commander Banks, and the cops could begin following them. With any luck at all, they would have the bad guys subdued and be out before the police arrived. Emily felt like Spiderman, tie 'em up and leave 'em for the police.  
  
They cased the place and found that all the lights were on downstairs, except for in the living room where some dolt was watching television, and there was an ambulance out front, but they had spotted no guards. When Moretti remarked on the absence of the guards, Emily said, "Why put out guards for our safety when the plan to blow us to hell anyway?"  
  
"You got a point."  
  
Sneaking around the house and peeking in the windows, they counted four men plus the ambulance attendants, heavily armed. "Probably with annihilation ammo," Emmy said, making Moretti shiver.  
  
"Ok," she whispered, "here's the plan."  
  
  
  
"Steve," Maribeth said as she helped him to his feet and hugged him close, "why does she need you and not her husband?"  
  
Steve sighed and rubbed soft circles on his wife's back as he held her tight. "I don't know, hon. Maybe it's because LA is my turf and she feels more secure with someone who knows the area. Maybe it's that I'm still a cop and Keith retired years ago." He tilted Maribeth's face up so he could look her in the eye, and added, "But I know this, whatever happens, she won't come between you and me. I love her like a friend, but you are my life. Besides, I think she and Keith are as happy together as you and I have been. These are just extraordinary circumstances."  
  
Maribeth nodded and put her head on his shoulder.  
  
  
  
They snuck around to the porch beside the living room. The TV was blaring so loudly no one would hear as Moretti boosted Emmy up onto the porch roof. After confirming that the second-floor window had no alarm attached, she stuck the suction cup on the window and cut a six inch square piece out of it. It was triple paned glass, so after she pulled the suction cup free of the scrap of glass, she repeated the operation two more times. Then she reached in through the hole, unlocked the window, and opened it. Finally, she went to the edge of the porch, Moretti climbed onto the rail, and Emmy helped him onto the roof.  
  
Emily slipped through the open window to the second-floor bedroom, and Moretti squeezed in after her.  
  
"Two weeks ago, an' I never woulda made it," Moretti commented.  
  
Emmy grinned and said, "Neither of us has made it yet."  
  
She opened her fanny pack and took out the chloroform, the rag, and the duct tape. Handing the tape to Moretti, she said, "Now we need to get their attention." She hunted around the room and found a lamp. Opening the door so the guys downstairs knew which room to come to, she threw the lamp to the floor and splashed some chloroform on her rag.  
  
  
  
When Steve and Maribeth emerged from the supply room, they found four nurses standing about the hall, trying to look very busy.  
  
Not even bothering to whisper about it, he said to Maribeth, "I guess we have been the talk of the town."  
  
She shared his contempt for gossip, and didn't mind shaming the nurses a bit. They should be ashamed. "Ever since Olivia *and Keith* showed up, speculation has run rampant around here. People haven't forgotten her or what she *used to* mean to you, and naturally, they *think* there is trouble waiting to happen."  
  
"Well," Steve said, "it's a good thing you trust your husband and Keith trusts his wife. I'd hate to think of the problems we'd have if you were the type to take such *vicious* gossip to heart." Steve turned to his wife, smiled, and winked. She grinned back and nodded, and they enjoyed a long, deep, wet, very public kiss. Steve was very glad that years ago, Maribeth had gently but insistently worked to make him get over his aversion to public displays of affection. Normally, he wouldn't be quite so passionate in the hospital corridor, but this was for a good cause.  
  
Pulling her close in a hug, he whispered in her ear, "*That* should give them something to *talk* about."  
  
Whispering back, she said, "They're just jealous. I've got the best looking cop in LA."  
  
Arm in arm, they turned and headed back to his room.  
  
  
  
Nardo Giani, beer in hand, sat in the living room flipping channels on the TV, "Nothin' on.Nothin' on." He was in charge, and he had learned from watching Mr. Gaudino, that when you were in charge, you always had other people do the work for you. That way, if something went wrong, you could give somebody hell for it. "Nothin' on.Nothin' on." So, he had Tony and Frank Colombo and Joey Russo and the guys in the ambulance watching for Moretti and the cop. "Nothin' on.Nothin' on." The way the front drive came right up to the living room window, he was sure to see their headlights. "Nothin' on.Nothin' on." There was no way they'd slip past him. Giancarlo Moretti was a dead man.  
  
A sudden crash jolted him from his rerun-induced hypnosis, and he hit the mute button, cursing as if he'd actually been interrupted. Yelling out to the kitchen where Frank and Tony were having coffee, he said, "Be a little more careful, will ya? I'm tryin' ta watch somethin' in here."  
  
"Wasn't us, Nardo," Frank yelled to him.  
  
Getting up and cursing his way to the kitchen, Nardo found Frank and Tony sitting at the table, looking as innocent as two mobsters possibly could. He headed into the dining room. "Joey?"  
  
"Wommebas," Joey mumbled without looking up from his copy of Les Miserables. Joey always mumbled, he'd gone to speech classes all through school, right up until he dropped out at seventeen, but they'd never helped. He just couldn't talk.  
  
"Of course it wasn't you. Ya never do nothin' but read."  
  
When Joey went back to his book, Nardo slapped him upside the head and said, "So, what the hell was it, jackass?"  
  
Shrugging, Joey answered, "Pstirs."  
  
If he hadn't jerked his head up toward the stairway, Nardo wouldn't have known he'd said, "Upstairs."  
  
"Well, quit pretendin' ya know how ta read, ya idiot, an' check it out," he said, yanking Joey from his seat by the collar of his shirt and hitting him on the head as he shoved him toward the stairwell. Frank and Tony came to watch and laugh as Joey was manhandled yet again. They stood beside Nardo at the foot of the stairs, then, as he watched Joey's progress.  
  
  
  
Steve and Maribeth returned to Steve's room to find it quite full. Ron, Dion, and Cheryl were sitting in chairs near the window, talking softly, watching the computer, and waiting for something to happen. Someone had made a run to McDonalds, and the greasy smell wreaked havoc with Steve's stomach for a moment. Maribeth sensed his distress, but he swallowed hard and shook her off.  
  
Amanda was sitting on Steve's bed beside Liv, and Jesse was leaning over her from the other side. Both were speaking to her softly. Liv was unresponsive. Even worse, she lay curled in a tiny ball, wrapped around Steve's pillow, clutching the sheets, a fist pulled up to her mouth, staring blankly ahead, and rocking ever so slightly. As Steve and Maribeth watched, Amanda noticed them and said a word to Jesse, who came over to speak to them.  
  
"Hey, guys," Jesse said.  
  
Despite the worried look in his friend's blue eyes, Steve had to smile. Jesse had gown a moustache years ago, when, finally turning forty, he had decided he was tired of having a baby face. Whenever he tried to be serious, stern, or solemn, it made him look almost comical. Back then, nobody had had the heart to tell him that it had just made him look like a little boy wearing a false moustache, and over time, he became so attached to it, or maybe it became so attached to him, that they could never tell him it still had the same effect today, especially when it was full of crumbs, as it was now. Steve had always wondered if Jesse had also grown the facial hair to look more like his own dad, Jesse's hero and mentor.  
  
"They interrupted your lunch, didn't they," Steve asked before Jesse began.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
Steve brushed his own upper lip with his index finger, and understanding the gesture because he'd seen it many times before, Jesse wiped his face and studied his palm for a moment as if trying to identify the source of the crumbs.  
  
"What's up?" Maribeth asked.  
  
Looking over his shoulder at Liv for a moment, Jesse said, "She's been like that a while now, since Moretti called. She hasn't said a word, and she just keeps getting more and more.lost.inside herself. Maybe you could talk to her, Steve."  
  
As Jesse looked apprehensively from Maribeth to Steve, she realized he had probably heard the gossip. She patted Steve on the back and said, "Go ahead, love." Smiling at Jess, she said, "It's ok, we worked it out."  
  
She laughed to herself when Jess breathed a sigh of relief before trying to sound matter-of-fact, saying, "You always do."  
  
  
  
Joey ascended the stairs cautiously. He wished Nardo hadn't cuffed him about the head. Nardo was always hateful to him. Everybody was hateful to him, but Nardo was the worst. Just because he didn't speak properly, didn't mean he was obtuse. Actually, Joey thought he was considerably more intelligent than Nardo. If *he* was overseeing this operation, with five subordinates to assist him, he'd have a minimum of one man keeping watch and another walking the perimeter continuously so that nobody could move in surreptitiously and catch them unawares. Nardo had to realize there were several individuals and agencies intent on capturing Moretti for various reasons.  
  
He arrived at the landing at the top of the stairs and gazed down the hall. A door was open, and Joey knew then that something was amiss. When he had first entered the residence, he'd reconnoitered and closed the upstairs doors behind himself. He crept stealthily down the hall to the open door and peered in.  
  
The room was as black as a cloudy sky at night. He stepped just inside the door and allowed his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and felt a kiss of cool air. Filmy white curtains billowed in an evening zephyr. Something was amiss indeed. As he had been securing the house earlier in the evening, Joey had examined the locks on all the windows to ensure that they were in fact closed. That window should not have been open.  
  
He stalked toward the window to close it, but had only managed a step or two when he felt a rag slip over his face and inhaled the acrid scent of chloroform. As he succumbed to the void that was unconsciousness, he heard Giancarlo Moretti softly mutter, "Aw, Joey, I'd a thought you'd a been smarter than this."  
  
  
  
Maribeth couldn't understand how a woman pushing seventy could look like she was still sixteen, but Liv managed it, and it looked perfectly natural to boot. She wondered if Keith, who did look his age, had ever had a stranger tell him he was a disgraceful dirty old man for seducing such a young lovely. She smiled to herself then, and suddenly realized, that's why she was feeling so jealous.  
  
She'd never really been afraid that Steve would trade her in for a younger model, but when an.'old favorite' showed up, *and* she looked like a younger model as well, Maribeth had started to worry. Then, because her husband was so preoccupied with this case, she had chosen not to worry him further and tried to deal with her feelings on her own. By keeping everything bottled up inside, she had allowed her jealousy to filter everything she saw between Liv and Steve, turning it into something it was not.  
  
But now, Liv looked scared. More to the point, she looked like a scared child, and as Maribeth watched, Steve, like a big brother or a best friend, sat beside the bed, directly in her line of sight, and tried to comfort the frightened little girl.  
  
"Liv, honey?" Steve said softly, brushing the wayward curls off her face.  
  
She didn't even look at him.  
  
"Liv, I know you hear me," he murmured, "look at me."  
  
She drew up into an even tighter ball, and kept on rocking.  
  
"Olivia Margaret Regis Stephens, look at me now," he kept his voice gentle but stern.  
  
Her eyes finally met his.  
  
"Emmy's gonna die, Steve."  
  
"No, sweetheart, she'll be ok. We're gonna help her."  
  
"She's on the move!" Ron exclaimed.  
  
Liv flinched, whimpered, closed her eyes, and started rocking harder.  
  
  
  
"Yeee-hahhhhh!" Emmy screamed as the Jeep sped away from the curb. "Was that a rush or what?"  
  
Moretti looked at her in disbelief. "You're insane. Ya enjoyed that, didn't ya?"  
  
She looked back at him and said, "No. Actually, it sucked, but it's like a damned roller coaster. Now that it's over, it's fun to think we actually did that and survived."  
  
Moretti shook his head, "You're outta your mind. Are ya ok?"  
  
"Just some bruises. I'll probably be sore tomorrow."  
  
After they had laid Joey out on the bed and bound him and gagged him with duct tape, they'd waited for whoever came next. Two guys, Tony and Frank Colombo, Moretti said, came up together a minute later, and Emmy chloroformed one while Moretti clocked the other with the butt of his gun. A few minutes later, Nardo Giani, came bounding into the room like the big, stupid bear of a man he was. Liv had leapt onto his back, wrapped an arm around his throat, and held the chloroform to his face as he crashed back into the wall and the bookcase trying to beat her off. He'd finally crumpled, though, and Moretti had bound and gagged him where he was. Finally, they'd snuck up on the ambulance. The two 'attendants', Jimmy Bregazzi and Ray Zucco, as Moretti identified them, were happy to cooperate when they found themselves staring down Emmy's 9 millimeter and Moretti's forty-five. Emmy had stuck a note in Bregazzi's breast pocket. As they left, she took the tracking device off her belt and tossed it into the bushes. When the cops sped by moments later she and Moretti ducked behind a car parked down the block, then ran like hell for the jeep.  
  
"Didn't seem we were there that long," Moretti muttered.  
  
"Time flies when you're having fun."  
  
  
  
"She *what*?" Ron yelled into the phone.  
  
Liv flinched, and with his eyes, Steve indicated that Amanda should quiet her husband. Amanda nodded and moved off to do just that.  
  
"*Six* of them?"  
  
"Ron," Amanda said quietly gesturing to where Liv lay rocking herself on the bed.  
  
He nodded and lowered his voice.  
  
"All tied up and waiting for you, with a note?"  
  
Cheryl and Dion gave him questioning looks.  
  
"I don't know. That's the Commander's call."  
  
Shaking his head, he gave the phone to Cheryl. "You're not going to believe this."  
  
At Steve's questioning look, Ron explained. "It seems Emily and Moretti arrived at the bogus safe house a good while before your men, subdued the six men there, one by one, bound and gagged them, and left us a note. Then slipped off into the night."  
  
"I'll be damned," Steve said. "Any sign of them?"  
  
Ron shook his head no. "Looks like a clean getaway."  
  
"Liv, do you hear that, sweetie? Emmy's ok."  
  
She just shook her head and continued to rock.  
  
A message flashed on the computer screen. READ THE NOTE.  
  
"Charge them? I don't know. Give me a minute. Meantime, separate them, and get 'Fredo and Donovan down there to watch them. I don't want anybody talking to any of them until Agent Wagner and I get there." She covered the phone and said, "Cioffi wants to know if he should charge them? What do you think? If we do, what do we charge them with? Sounds like all we have are six guys bound and gagged. They were carrying, but that's nothing."  
  
Ron shrugged.  
  
Cheryl glared, "Well, we sure as hell can't let them go."  
  
Dion suggested, "Have Al read you the letter. Maybe she left us some evidence." Cheryl gave him an incredulous look, and he said, "Think about it. It's *exactly* what she would do if she could."  
  
  
  
Just as Keith was getting out of the car, Donovan's radio squawked. "Car 38 report to Station, code three. Car 38 report to Station, code three."  
  
Looking surprised, Donovan said, "That's me. Gotta go."  
  
Waving goodbye to the young man, Keith headed to the reception desk to get Steve's room number.  
  
  
  
"Got the note," Cioffi said. "Kid prints everything as if it were a police report."  
  
Cheryl heard an envelope tearing open and paper rustling. "As smart as she is, would you believe she can't write cursive? She told me once all she can do is sign her name. She learned to type so young there seemed no point in learning to write."  
  
"The letter, Al," Cheryl urged impatiently.  
  
"Yeah, yeah. Still, I wonder why she can't write it if she can read it." Cioffi knew he had a habit of rambling sometimes, but he and Commander Banks were old friends, so when she pestered him about it, he usually made a point of going one more round before he followed orders.  
  
"Ok, it's really short. Says, and I quote, 'Each of these men is a material witness in the possible kidnapping and false imprisonment of the others.' Looks like she gave us something to hold them on, huh?"  
  
"She sure did, and without charging them. So, they have no need for lawyers. Do that, and keep them isolated from other people and each other. Agent Wagner and I will be there soon."  
  
  
  
"What's up, guys?" Keith asked as he saw Cheryl and Ron coming down the hall toward him.  
  
They didn't even stop walking. Cheryl just turned around and backpedaled towards the exit. "Looks like Emmy and Moretti are all right. Liv needs you; she's in Steve's room. Dion is still upstairs and he can fill you in. We have six thugs to interview."  
  
The information came so fast most of it went right over Keith's head, but he did latch on to the two most important things as far as he was concerned. Emily was ok, and Liv needed him.  
  
  
  
Joey sat alone in a cell at the police station, contemplating his situation. He was still a relatively young man and did not particularly fancy the thought of spending the remainder of his years incarcerated. He knew he was not lacking in intelligence, and had only dropped out of high school because speech therapy had proven ineffective for him and he simply could not tolerate the teasing he had received at the hands of his classmates. Roger Gorini had confidence in him because he seldom spoke, and when he did, what he said was of utmost importance. The authorities could close several cases with the information he could provide, and he had access to information that Giancarlo Moretti was entirely unaware of.  
  
He considered his position. When the police had locked them up in separate cells, Nardo had threatened him, yelling, "Dammit, Joey, I'm gonna kill you, you stupid son of a bitch. It's your screw up got us here."  
  
He had no doubt that Nardo was intent on carrying out his threat. Nardo had continued to scream, threaten, and curse everything about Joey from his books, to his cat, to his mother, until the red-headed officer who was guarding them now had clouted him in the head and told him, "Shut your mouth Giani, you're givin' me a headache."  
  
Joey smiled, remembering the look on Nardo's face when, for probably the first time in his life, someone had smacked him instead of the other way round. Grinning even wider, he made a decision that, he hoped, would change his life forever.  
  
  
  
"Oh, hell," Keith muttered as he walked into Steve's room and caught sight of his wife. She was curled around the pillow in a tight little ball, the sheets balled up in her hands, eyes tightly shut, sucking on a fist and rocking frantically. Steve sat beside her, stroking here hair and murmuring to her, but his actions seemed to have no effect. Keith hadn't seen her this bad since after the BioGen crisis was almost over and Emily was recovering. Looking at Dion, he asked, "Why the hell didn't you call me sooner?"  
  
"She wasn't like this until just before I called you," Dion explained. "I was on the phone with Jess, thinking she might need a friend and a sedative. She was on the hospital phone talking with Moretti. All of a sudden, she gave the phone to Commander Banks, crawled onto the bed, and curled up like that."  
  
Keith thought a moment, then nodded, accepting the explanation. He was her husband and would have seen the signs and known this was coming. Except for Steve, Jesse, and Amanda, these people were virtual strangers and could never have been expected to know what to do even if they had noticed she was a little off her usual even keel. Keith went over to the bed and put a hand on Steve's shoulder.  
  
"I'll handle this."  
  
Steve nodded, whispered a few more words to Liv, and moved out of the way. Keith looked around the room and asked, "Could all of you give us some privacy, and, uh, dim the lights and shut the door on your way out." Then all his attention focused on his wife. "Olivia, baby, it's me, Keith. It's gonna be ok, sweetheart."  
  
On his way out, Steve said, "I'll make sure all the calls to my room are routed to the nurses' station, Keith, and if Emmy calls, I'll come let you know."  
  
Jesse added, "I'm right outside the door, too, Keith. If you want me to, I can give her something to calm her down."  
  
Only half aware that he was responding, Keith said, "Ok, Steve. Thanks, Jesse, but I don't think we'll need it."  
  
In the dark quiet, Keith took off his shoes and lay beside his wife on the narrow hospital bed. He'd done this before, but he'd never had to pull her back when she was this far gone. Gently tugging the pillow she clutched, he said, "Put this aside and hold on to me, baby."  
  
At first, she clung even tighter to the pillow, but with gentle, insistent coaxing and cajoling, he finally got her to release the pillow. He slipped it out of her arms and dropped it to the floor behind him, then he moved closer to her on the bed. "I'm right here, O."  
  
For a moment, she did nothing, then her arms shot out quick as lightening, and she embraced him so tightly his ribs hurt and he couldn't draw a full breath. After several more minutes, he managed to negotiate her into what was a slightly more tolerable, if not more comfortable, position, and they lay like that for a long time as he softly murmured and pleaded and tried to convince her that she needed to come back to him.  
  
  
  
Every two and a half minutes--Joey knew it was two and a half minutes because he had been counting the seconds--the redheaded police officer paced past his cell, turned, and meandered back to the other end of the cellblock. This time, when the young man ambled past him, Joey attempted to capture his attention.  
  
"Psttt."  
  
The young man favored him with a slightly annoyed gaze, looked away, and moved on.  
  
"Psssttt."  
  
The youthful visage turned his way again, and the dark brown eyes peered at him in aggravation.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Wamdill."  
  
Confusion flashed across the young officer's countenance.  
  
"What?"  
  
Mustering all his concentration, knowing this had to be a fait accompli before the police spoke to the others, Joey made another attempt. Slowly he articulated his desires. "Wan um deeuh."  
  
He could see the officer trying to process his words. "Deeuhl," he reiterated.  
  
Joey saw the moment the light of understanding dawned. "You want to cut a deal."  
  
Joey nodded.  
  
"With what?"  
  
"Lummeerideut."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Lummeerideut," he repeated, miming scribbling words on his palm.  
  
"You wanna write it out?"  
  
Joey nodded vigorously.  
  
"Let me talk to the sergeant about getting you paper and a pen."  
  
Joey moved closer to the bars. Clutching them and putting his face against them, he watched as the young man began to pace back to the other end of the cellblock. "Pees." He knew the word was 'please', but he could never get it to come out right.  
  
  
  
Keith had been with his wife for half an hour, whispering soothing words to her, stroking her hair, rubbing her back, and all the while begging her, "Please, baby, don't hide inside yourself. Talk to me. Come back to me. Let me help. A burden shared is a burden halved, sweetheart. Let me help you. Tell me what's wrong."  
  
Slowly, the rocking had stopped, and though she still clutched him tightly, the tension in her back and shoulders had eased. Others might not notice, but, after thirty years of marriage and several terrifying crises, he could tell she was almost ready to open up.  
  
"Talk to me, O. Let me help you, sweetheart."  
  
A deep, shuddering breath, and, face still pressed against his chest, she asked, "Is she dead yet?"  
  
"Oh, baby, no. As far as we can tell, Emmy is just fine. O?"  
  
"I don't believe you."  
  
She had started rocking again.  
  
*No, dammit. I will not let her slip away.*  
  
"Olivia," his voice was soft and gentle, but very stern. "Look at me. Now."  
  
It took her a moment, but she went still, and tilted her head up to look him in the eye.  
  
"We have always been honest with each other. I wouldn't dream of lying to you. As far as we know, Emmy is safe. You have got to stop imagining that the worst is going to happen."  
  
"The worst always happens, Keith."  
  
Inwardly, Keith groaned. They'd had this discussion more times than he cared to count. Olivia had a strong religious faith that had carried her through many hard times, but whenever her family was in danger, she became prey to her nightmare fantasies. Usually, she could see hope where no one else did, and she was often right, but when it came to family concerns, there were dark things inside her that she had never properly dealt with, and sometimes they threatened to overwhelm her. He supposed he couldn't blame her, life had been inordinately cruel to her when she was young; but he had hoped after thirty years of marriage, thirty years of a good marriage, she would be strong enough to keep a more positive outlook when things got tough.  
  
"That is not true."  
  
"Keith."  
  
"No, Olivia, I will not allow you to do this to yourself. I know your granddad beat you. I know how your family died. I sure as hell know what Ted did to you because I was there. All that ended over thirty years ago when Steve stood aside and let you marry me."  
  
"But Emmy."  
  
"I know, baby. She *almost* died when she was born, but she didn't. We *almost* lost her when she was fifteen, and it took a while, but we all got back together. The BioGen virus *almost* killed her, but it didn't. Our daughter is tough and strong and smart, and she is one hell of a fighter. She is gonna be ok."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
"Of course I do."  
  
"Say it."  
  
"I promise," Keith didn't hesitate, though had he thought about it, he might have.  
  
  
  
"Chief Sloan, it's for you."  
  
Steve took the receiver from the young nurse. "Sloan here."  
  
"Hey, Chief." It was Emmy. "Moretti and I are safe, and I think we've given you everything you need to find out who's behind the leaks in the FBI and the Witness Protection Program as well as in your own office."  
  
"It was a damned fool stunt to pull, Lieutenant."  
  
"But it worked."  
  
"Yeah? At what cost? Do you have any idea what you're putting your mother through?"  
  
"Mama?"  
  
"She's in shock, Emily, almost catatonic. She won't talk, won't even look at people. She just crawled into a bed here at the hospital and.hid inside herself."  
  
Silence. Then, "Let me talk to her."  
  
"She's unresponsive."  
  
"She'll respond to me."  
  
"Ok, hold on while I have them transfer the call." Steve handed the phone over to the nurse instructing her to have the call transferred to his room in one minute, and he stressed that she should wait one minute to allow him time to inform Keith that the call was coming through.  
  
  
  
"I'll be damned," Cheryl muttered. "This information closes four homicides we've been working on for months, proves three cases of bribery for major city contracts we never knew we had, and promises to give up the man behind the attempts on Moretti at our safe house and the place where we found Joey, here. We've got locations on murder weapons, records of hit transactions, and he says there's a lot of it on audio tape, and he can show us where it is and how it's filed."  
  
"And I can tell you," Ron said, as he finished glancing through the sheaf of papers Cheryl had handed him, "none of it seems to duplicate what Moretti has told us."  
  
Joey smiled, obscenely pleased with himself. He had written out everything while Banks and Wagner had watched, over twenty pages of his fine, delicate script, and he knew they would find it impossible to resist what he had to offer.  
  
"You'll testify to all of this in court?"  
  
Joey thought about it a minute. He hadn't considered this particular obstacle before. Surely, his inability to articulate clearly wouldn't be the sole issue preventing him from making an arrangement with the authorities. Certainly, Banks and Wagner, or the DA and the U.S. Attorney had dealt with witnesses who could not speak before.  
  
Finally, shrugging and raising his hands, palms up in a gesture of futility and helplessness, he said, "Candauk."  
  
"I beg your pardon," Cheryl said.  
  
Groaning, tapping at his lips, then throwing his hands up in the air, he shouted, "CANDAUK!" Tapping his temple, he said, "DUH!!!!"  
  
Now catching his meaning, Cheryl said, "If someone read this aloud into the record and asked if this was your testimony, would you say under oath that it was.in every trial at which we used it?"  
  
Carefully, clearly, Joey said, "Yais."  
  
"What do you want?" Ron asked.  
  
  
  
"Gimme the tape, Rogelio."  
  
"Tape, Uncle Vinnie?"  
  
"Everyone knows you record every conversation, Rogelio. Give me the damned tape."  
  
Roger Gorini grinned nervously and said, "Oh, right, the tape. Of course, Uncle Vinnie."  
  
"Rogelio," Vincent Gaudino said as he took the tape from his nephew's shaking hand, "I am sorely disappointed in you."  
  
"I know that, Uncle Vinnie," Roger said quietly. "I'm sorry." He knew he was going to die, but he had a plan so he wouldn't go out alone.  
  
"I know you are, Rogelio, but you know I can not let this failure go unpunished."  
  
"I know that, Uncle Vinnie."  
  
"This will be hard on your mother, my sister."  
  
"I know, Uncle Vinnie. Please, tell her I love her."  
  
Vinnie nodded. He could grant his nephew that small favor. He had planned to do so anyway.  
  
"Ok," Gaudino turned to leave. "Do it, Marco," he told his bodyguard.  
  
"Wait, Uncle Vinnie!"  
  
"Do not disappoint me again, Rogelio. Take it like a man." As he turned to look at his nephew, his eyes grew wide to see Roger pulling a gun from his desk.  
  
  
  
Joey snapped his fingers and motioned for a pen and paper, which were promptly provided. He didn't have to contemplate his demands. He knew what he most desired before he had made the decision to attempt to acquire it.  
  
I AM AN INTELLIGENT MAN WHO HAPPENS TO HAVE A SPEECH DISORDER THAT CANNOT BE CORRECTED. I DO NOT WISH TO BE TREATED AS AN IDIOT. I WANT A COLLEGE EDUCATION, NOT MERELY THE DEGREE THAT THE WITNESS PROTECTION PROGRAM PROVIDES ITS ENROLEES, BUT THE ACTUAL EDUCATION THAT MAKES THE DEGREE MEANINGFUL. I WISH TO LIVE IN A CITY WITH NUMEROUS MUSEUMS AND THEATERS, AND A SYMPHONY. I WILL ALSO REQUIRE A WELL PAYING JOB IN WHICH I NEED NOT SPEAK TO MANY PEOPLE, AND A REASONABLY SAFE RESIDENCE.  
  
I ALSO WANT NARDO GIANI CHARGED WITH ASSAULT AND THREATENING BODILY HARM.  
  
Ron and Cheryl held the paper between them as they read it. Both of them had to smile when they read the last line, thinking that if Giani had just treated his young accomplice better, he'd have gone free.  
  
"Joey," Ron said, "if you're so smart, why'd you become a mobster?"  
  
He returned the paper so that Joey could write out his response.  
  
  
  
Steve poked his head around the door to find Liv and Keith sitting in his hospital bed talking quietly. Olivia wasn't her usual bright and cheery self, but she wasn't curled up in a catatonic ball, either. That had to be progress.  
  
"Guys, Emily is on the phone."  
  
Liv was on her feet in a flash, but Steve motioned her back down. "I'm having the call transferred here. The phone should ring any sec."  
  
The ringing of the phone cut him off, and as Liv leaped to answer it, he looked questioningly at Keith. Receiving the thumbs up, he smiled, nodded, and would have left them alone had Keith not waved him into the room.  
  
  
  
Joey accepted the paper from Agent Wagner, and proceeded to explain why he had chosen the life he had lived right up until an hour ago.  
  
MY PEERS HOUNDED ME OUT OF THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS BECAUSE OF MY GARBLED SPEECH. MY PARENTS WERE FINANCIALLY ILL EQUIPPED TO PROVIDE FOR ME EITHER THE ASSISTANCE I NEEDED TO IMPROVE MY SPEECH OR THE SPECIAL SCHOOLING I REQUIRED TO ADAPT TO A WORLD THAT WAS NOT SUITED TO DEALING WITH MY PECULIAR DISABILITY. I.SUSPENDED MY FORMAL EDUCATION AT SEVENTEEN, AND HAVE BEEN ENTIRELY AN AUTODIDACT EVER SINCE. THIS WORLD OFFERS FEW EMPLOYMENT OPPORTUNITIES FOR A YOUNG MAN WITH NO DIPLOMA AND NO COMMUNICATION SKILLS.  
  
"So, Joey, what kind of job would you like?"  
  
Joey thought a minute.  
  
I AM UNCERTAIN, BUT I DO LOVE BOOKS AND MUSIC, AND I AM SURE I CAN LEARN ANYTHING ANYONE SHOULD TRY TO TEACH ME.  
  
Ron looked at Cheryl, and said, "Get some men you can trust, and check this out. If it rings true, I think I have a friend who can help us out."  
  
Joey sat back and beamed with joy. It appeared that he was about to embark on a journey into a new and wonderful future.  
  
  
  
"Emmy!" Liv shouted into the receiver so loudly that both Keith and Steve cringed.  
  
"Lay down," Keith said, indicating the now vacant hospital bed. "You look like you could use the rest."  
  
"I'm ok," Steve said, shaking his head.  
  
"Maybe so," Keith conceded, "but you know if you don't go back to bed, both your wife and my wife will be pissed at us."  
  
Steve grinned and shook his head, but knowing Keith was right, he lay down, contenting himself with bringing the head of the bed to an upright position. It had been a trying day, and he didn't want either of the women upset again.  
  
"Emmy," Liv continued at a lower volume. "Are you all right, sweetheart?.You are.Good.He is, too.How's your shoulder? No infection, I hope.You did?.Good.Baby, I do wish you'd be more careful.I know sweetheart, but your job doesn't require you to take risks like the one you did today.Ok, baby, he's right here. I love you. Bye."  
  
Liv handed the phone over to Keith.  
  
"She's ok?" Steve inquired.  
  
Smiling, Liv nodded. "Yeah. She took Jesse's stitches out of her shoulder a few days ago, and says it's healing nicely. Moretti's ok, too."  
  
"Ok, I'll tell him. I love you sweetheart. Bye." Keith hung up the phone and said, "I'm supposed to tell you Moretti says Joey is a smart kid and Agent Wagner and Commander Banks should be able to make a deal with him if they treat him right."  
  
Steve reached for the phone and said, "Good. I'll call them now."  
  
Reaching out, Liv slammed down the receiver and said, "No, you won't. You are supposed to be resting, and this was supposed to end hours ago. Keith can go out in the hall and tell Dion to call them. Meanwhile, I am going to get you settled for the night."  
  
"But, Liv."  
  
"No arguments," she cut him off.  
  
Laughing, and glad he wasn't the patient, Keith headed off to do his errand.  
  
  
  
"Ok, Joey," Ron said. "If everything pans out, I can get you a job at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C."  
  
Joey positively glowed.  
  
"You'll be attending GWU there, and majoring in Library Science, assuming you pass the entrance exams you'll have to take in lieu of having a high school diploma. Does that suit you?"  
  
Joey nodded vehemently. "Yais, oyais."  
  
"Ok, then," Cheryl said. "We need a name. Who sent you and the others to kill Moretti?"  
  
Joey's face rumpled in concentration. "Green-ee."  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
Sighing, wishing just once he could say something coherent, Joey motioned for pen and paper.  
  
GORINI, he wrote when Ron gave him the materials to do so.  
  
"Who?" The agent asked.  
  
ROGER GORINI, THE NEWS ANCHOR.  
  
Now Cheryl was doubtful. "What does he have to do with Moretti?"  
  
NOTHING. HE IS VINCENT GAUDINO'S NEPHEW.  
  
"Ohhhhh," both cops said as understanding dawned.  
  
  
  
After filling in Dion, Keith turned to Maribeth and said cheerfully, "I think you better get in there. She's trying to settle him for the night, and he's fighting her every inch of the way. There is definitely a war brewing."  
  
Shaking her head and groaning in frustration over her pigheaded husband, Maribeth headed off to help Liv. She walked in to the room to see Steve grabbing Liv's wrist.  
  
"Please, Liv, just stop. Don't touch it."  
  
"Steve," Olivia said gently, placing her free hand over the hand tightly gripping her slender wrist.  
  
Maribeth was proud and pleased to realize that she didn't feel jealous any more. She no longer saw Liv as a threat. All she saw now was a kind woman who cared infinitely for her husband and was trying to help him.  
  
"I have to irrigate it," Olivia told him, "or it will get clogged, and then we'd have to pull it out and put a new one in." In the hand Steve held away from him, she held a syringe filled with a saline solution for irrigating the NG tube.  
  
Maribeth approached the foot of the bed to check his chart. Steve saw her, but Liv's back was to her as she was intent on dealing with him. Maribeth put her finger to her lips to indicate that Steve should not disclose her presence just yet, and he nodded slightly.  
  
Checking the chart, she found that Liv had already withdrawn Steve's stomach contents and measured them. Steve's stomach was nearly empty, which was a good sign that he was digesting the feeding solution properly. Once Liv irrigated the tube, they could start a new bag of feeding solution and leave Steve alone for the night.  
  
"Liv," Steve pleaded, "you don't understand. I just can't bear to have anyone touch it anymore."  
  
"Steve, I know it's uncomfortable, but."  
  
"Fingernails on a chalkboard."  
  
Olivia visibly trembled from head to toe, nearly dropping the syringe of irrigation solution. Maribeth shivered as well, and drew an inward hiss of breath.  
  
"Steve," they both gasped, and Liv turned to look at Maribeth.  
  
There was a brief moment of tension before Maribeth smiled and said, "He's not tolerating it well, is he?"  
  
Liv shook her head no, but didn't get the chance to say anything because Steve cut her off.  
  
"Dammit, I am miserable *all the time*," he said desperately. "My nose is sore, and my throat is sore, the tape itches, and every time I turn my head or swallow, my skin starts to crawl because the damned thing moves. I can barely tolerate it as it is, but somebody messing with it just about kills me. The only reason I haven't pulled it out myself is I am afraid I won't be able to finish the job."  
  
Liv and Maribeth looked at each other, and Maribeth shrugged. She knew from reading the journals that Olivia's experience with the BioGen virus had prepared her better for dealing with these issues that all her own years of experience possibly could have.  
  
Nodding, Liv asked, "Maribeth, do you have a flashlight on you?"  
  
Maribeth nodded and handed over her penlight and accepted the syringe of irrigation solution that Olivia held out to her.  
  
"Ok, Steve," Olivia said soothingly as she got a tongue depressor from the supply kit they had been keeping in Steve's room, "Why don't you let me check your throat to make sure you're not having an allergic reaction to the tube? If you are, it has to come out. Open wide and say, 'Ah.'"  
  
Maribeth smiled as her husband complied obediently. He never would have given in that easily for her. She was beginning to see how it might be nice to have Olivia around.  
  
"Well," Olivia said softly, "your throat is a little red, but it's not enough to cause concern at the moment. I'll see about getting you some anesthetic spray to use at your discretion, and that might make you a little more comfortable, ok?"  
  
"All right," Steve said grudgingly.  
  
"Now," she said, sitting on the edge of the bed, "this is going to be a bit more unpleasant, but I need to check inside your nose. Will you let me do that?"  
  
Steve looked to Maribeth, and she smiled encouragingly. She was beginning to understand how this small woman worked such wonders with a stubborn mule like Steve. She asked him if she could do something, she didn't tell him what she was going to do. Steve was a man used to taking charge, and by asking his permission, she was letting him take charge.  
  
"Ok," he agreed reluctantly.  
  
As she reached to touch his nose, Steve reflexively tried to push her away. She moved away and asked, "Steve, could you please sit on your hands for me for a minute?"  
  
Suddenly, Maribeth saw the other half of the formula. It was something Maribeth knew she would never be able to learn. Throughout her career, Maribeth had worked hard to maintain an aura of unshakable confidence and unquestionable competence, and, though she was still caring and gentle, it had left her with a hard edge. For her, that was enough with most patients.  
  
With her knot-headed husband, though, she had always realized that something different was needed. Now she knew what it was. If it had been simply a matter of asking instead of telling, she could have managed it herself, but there was something about Olivia's manner that made people want to do as she asked. He softness and gentility, her kindness and gentleness, her sweet caring nature made people ashamed to say no to her, because they knew without a doubt that she had their best interests at heart.  
  
Maribeth felt her stomach tighten in sympathy as her husband sat on his hands, stiffened, and screwed his eyes shut in anticipation.  
  
Olivia looked up his nose, and gently moved the tube a bit to get a better look. Steve whimpered and squirmed and she said, "Sorry."  
  
Finally returning the penlight to Maribeth, she said, "It doesn't look too bad up there, Steve. I think we can give you some nose drops that will ease your discomfort. They're somewhat unpleasant to put in, but they'll do the trick for hours. Will it be ok if we try that for the night and wait to see how it works before we considered something else tomorrow?"  
  
Steve thought about what she had said a moment, then agreed. "But if it doesn't get better tomorrow, we will do something else, right," he asked rather pathetically.  
  
She patted his leg and said, "Of course we will. But for now, let's just try this."  
  
"Ok."  
  
"Good, now, would you like me to re-tape the tube so it doesn't shift when you move?"  
  
"Yes, please."  
  
While Olivia worked, Maribeth put the irrigation syringe back in the basin of solution for the time being and said, "I'll get the throat spray and the nose drops, Liv, if you'll prepare the feeding solution. We'll wait until he's more comfortable to finish the irrigation and start the feeding pump, ok?"  
  
Olivia nodded, "That sounds like a good idea."  
  
  
  
Half an hour later, Steve was resting comfortably, nearly asleep. Because he'd had such a stressful day, Jesse had come in and increased his dosage of pain medication and tranquilizers. Keith had stopped in to say good night before he and Olivia left, and he explained that Dion had left some time ago to check out some of the information Joey had given Cheryl and Ron.  
  
"I wish you'd consider staying the night, Liv," Jesse said. "You gave us all quite a scare."  
  
"Mmmm. 'Sright." Steve mumbled. "I haven't worried so much in a lonnng timmmme."  
  
Olivia chuckled, brushed his hair out of his eyes, and said, "Go to sleep, Steve, you're stoned."  
  
"Mmmm-hmmm."  
  
Looking at Jesse, she said, "Really, Jess. I am ok. You know I always have been one to slip around the bend from time to time."  
  
"Which is exactly why I think you should stay the night, just in case."  
  
"Jess."  
  
"Wait," Maribeth said, "Let me offer a solution. Steven can sleep on the fold out bed in Dad's apartment, and you and Keith can use the spare room. You can stop by the Brentwood house on the way for a change of clothes."  
  
"I don't know, Maribeth. I'd hate to put you out."  
  
"Liv, I want to do this. I've treated you badly."  
  
"Maribeth..."  
  
"No, I mean it, and I want to make it up to you. This way, Jesse can rest easy because you'll be close to medical attention should you need it. Besides, there's too much tension at Emily's house with the task force there all the time. You and Keith can't rest properly even when they're gone. Move into the guest room at the beach house. Work in Brentwood with the task force during the day, and come back to the beach house at night."  
  
"Sa gooood plannnn," Steve slurred.  
  
This time everyone chuckled.  
  
"Ok, we'll do that, but let's go straight to Malibu tonight, and Keith and I can go back to Brentwood to shower and change there tomorrow. I'm bushed and don't want to go twenty minutes out of the way just for clean clothes."  
  
Their plans made, everyone said goodnight to Steve and headed their separate ways.  
  
  
  
"Easy, Marco," Roger said. "I'm not going to shoot anybody."  
  
"Den wut you need da gun for?"  
  
"Well," Roger said, "I, uh, I'm going to shoot myself."  
  
Gorini took a letter off his desk and said, "Uncle Vinnie, could you make sure Mama sees this? It's a suicide note, and it gives her a reasonable explanation of why I would kill myself. The cops won't be able to pin it on you, Mama'll never blame you, and with what I've written here, she can't blame herself either."  
  
Vinnie took the letter and stood there for a few seconds, tapping it into his hand. "Rogelio, if you do this thing, take your own life, you can not be buried in consecrated ground."  
  
Roger shrugged. "I haven't been to mass since I was eighteen, Uncle Vinnie. It doesn't matter to me."  
  
Gaudino nodded, then said, "But it will matter very much to your mother, my sister."  
  
Roger pretended to think. He had known from the moment he had heard that Nardo and the others had been arrested what he was going to say and do here, but he had to pretend to think about it, or his Uncle Vinnie would know something was up.  
  
"Uncle Vinnie," he asked, holding out the gun butt first. "Would you do it?"  
  
"That is what I pay Marco for, Rogelio."  
  
"I know, Uncle Vinnie, but I can't do it myself, for Mama's sake, not because I am afraid, and I don't want a stranger to do it."  
  
"Rogelio, you have known Marco for many years."  
  
"He's worked for you for years, Uncle Vinnie, but I haven't known him. Please, Uncle Vinnie, you have the tape. No one will ever know. Mess the place up, and use my gun. It will look like a robbery. No one will ever know. Please, Uncle Vinnie."  
  
Gaudino thought a bit. He started breathing heavily. His nephew was doing him proud, finally, begging not for his life, but for a way to protect his uncle and his mother even in death.  
  
"Ok, Rogelio," looking at his bodyguard, he said, "take the petty cash, the laptop, his cell phone, watch, wallet, and jewelry. Is there anything else of value in here, Rogelio?"  
  
Roger nodded toward the wall as he removed the last of his jewelry and handed it to Marco. "The painting. It's worth a few grand."  
  
Marco took the painting down. "Now what, boss?"  
  
"Take it out to the car and wait for me."  
  
Marco left, and Gaudino looked sadly at his nephew. "Ok, Rogelio, let's get it right." He held out his hand for the gun. "Go out the door and come back in as if you were walking in on a robbery."  
  
Roger Gorini did as he was told. Much to his surprise, he was not afraid. He knew this was the end, and he suspected he was going to hell, if it existed, but the thought didn't frighten him. As he came back in the door, he felt the hard cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against the bone behind his right ear and smiled. Everyone knew he taped everything, but only two people knew he always made two copies. Joey was already talking to the cops, and, he figured, Liana eventually would. One way or another, his fat old bastard Uncle Vinnie would sooner or later be following him straight to hell.  
  
He heard the discharge, smelled the cordite, and was gone.  
  
Vincent Gaudino looked down at his nephew's body. "Rogelio, you were a good boy. It's a shame you couldn't get rid of Moretti for me." 


	18. Bedrest Blues

(Chapter 18. Malibu beach house, Gorini's warehouse. March 21-22.)  
  
"Ok, son," Mark said as Liv pulled back the covers and helped Steve into bed. "I'm just going to go find some of your latest motorcycle magazines and maybe that novel you were reading while you get settled. It will give you something to occupy your thoughts for a while."  
  
"You don't." Mark was already gone. ".have to, Dad," Steve finished deflatedly. Liv was plumping his pillow for him and he had to bite his tongue to avoid a cutting remark. They were both hovering, and already they were making him so tense he was beginning to wonder if he wouldn't have been better off staying in the hospital.  
  
"Liv, please!" he griped, then gasped as he felt his stomach start to burn. Taking a deep breath he said, "Just sit down and talk to me. I'd much rather enjoy your company that.submit to.your ministrations."  
  
"Oh, Steve, I'm sorry. I'm getting on your nerves, aren't I?"  
  
He forced a smile and said, "You, no. What you're doing, yes. Just have a seat and.entertain me."  
  
She folded her arms and gave him a sly look. "You know," she said suggestively, "that opens up a world of possibilities."  
  
"Liv." he said in a warning tone.  
  
"Oh, for goodness sake, Steve! I'm kidding."  
  
"So," Liv said settling on the edge of the bed beside him, "how's life been treating you these past thirty years?"  
  
Just as Steve opened his mouth to answer, Mark came tottering in, his reading glasses precariously balanced on the end of his nose. "Ok, son," he said, "these are all the issues I could find for the past three months. I don't know which ones you've read and.ahhh!" As he read the dates on magazines, Mark hadn't been watching where he was going, so, halfway into the room, he tripped over the edge of a decorator rug Maribeth had placed on the floor.  
  
The magazines went flying, landing on the floor, the bed, and several of them striking Liv and Steve. Mark managed to stumble across the room to land softly on the foot of the bed where, after taking a moment to recover, he turned to look at Liv and Steve who were gathering the magazines that had rained down on them.  
  
"Oh, gee, guys," he said, "I'm sorry. I'll just gather up the ones on the floor."  
  
"It's all right, Mark," Olivia interrupted as she stood and started collecting the several issues that hadn't made it to the bed. "I've got them."  
  
"Well, I'll just help," Mark insisted.  
  
"It's ok, Mark. I've got them. You just have a seat and take it easy."  
  
Mark looked at her crossly and said in his best old coot voice, "Young lady, I may be old, but I am not decrepit."  
  
Liv chuckled and said, "No, you're certainly not that, but you are clumsy."  
  
"Clumsy!" He shouted still using the put-on voice. "Clumsy? I'll have you know I am quite graceful."  
  
"Of course you are," Liv placated, "and you fell beautifully, but see now, I have all the magazines, so you can just relax."  
  
In a mock pout, Mark pointed at Steve and said, "That's what he's supposed to be doing."  
  
"Yes," Steve snapped, "and the two of you are making it very difficult!"  
  
As Mark and Liv just gaped at him in surprise, Steve drew a deep breath to calm himself and let it out slowly. When that didn't work, he tried another. After several seconds, he finally looked at them and said, "Dad, Liv, I'm sorry."  
  
Mark, who was still sitting at the end of the bed patted his foot and said, "That's ok, son. I know how you hate to be sick."  
  
"No, it's not, Dad. I know the two of you are only trying to.make me comfortable, and I know I have no choice in the matter right now, but I don't *want* to be comfortable. I want to get back to work."  
  
"But, Steve."  
  
"Liv, I know I can't," he interrupted her. "I know I'm on medical leave, I know I'm ill, and I know I'm stuck here for now, but I really want to go back to work. It's just so damned frustrating with everything that's going on right now."  
  
At that moment, Mark's watch alarm beeped. He looked at it and frowned.  
  
"Something wrong, Dad?"  
  
"It's time for your next meal and medication, son."  
  
"Oh, wonderful," Steve's voice was dripping with sarcasm. When he looked at his dad, though, and saw how torn he was, he softened his tone. "I'll be ok, Dad. Go on and get it. I know it has to be on a schedule. Liv'll sit with me." Looking at Olivia, he asked, "Won't you?"  
  
Liv smiled. "Sure. It will give us a chance to talk."  
  
Marked looked from his son to his friend. They were clearly comfortable with each other. With a nod, he headed off to the kitchen to prepare Steve's nutrition shake and measure out his medication dosage.  
  
"So," Liv said with a smile, settling beside him again, "how *has* life been treating you?" Tapping his right shin gently, she asked, "How's the leg?"  
  
Steve went wide-eye and said, "You're not gonna believe this." He pulled the covers back and rolled up the leg of his pajamas to reveal unmarked skin where thirty years ago a bullet wound and surgery to save his leg had left their mark.  
  
"Oh, wow," Liv gasped as she stroked the restored limb. "Your dad mentioned that the stem-cell treatment for your heart attack had repaired old injuries, but I had no idea it had gone this far. Steve, I have heard of several cases like this, but yours is the first I've seen. This is simply amazing. I never took the time to read the research. Tell me, what was it like? Did it hurt? How long did it take?"  
  
Steve was pleased to answer her questions, and he could tell she was really happy for him.  
  
"Well, at first, it felt like my leg had gone to sleep. I had pins and needles all the time so bad I couldn't rest. Jess thought I might have developed a blood clot, so he did some tests, and instead of the blood supply being blocked off to the area, it was actually increasing. Then the sensation started spreading to my pelvis, too. For a couple weeks, it was so bad Jesse kept me sedated most of the time."  
  
"Sounds dreadful," Liv commented.  
  
"Oh, God, Liv, it was. It was worse than the first time around. After the pins and needles finally subsided, I started getting muscle spasms, not just in my calf like before, but through my pelvis and in my thigh as well. Jess gave me Darvocet and a muscle relaxant but it didn't help much."  
  
"Oh, Steve, I am so sorry you had to go through that."  
  
He shook his head. "Don't be. It was worth it. After about a month, the pain went away. Then a couple weeks later, the edges of my scars started to itch and get red and puffy. I was miserable again, but an anesthetic lotion helped a lot. Within a week, I noticed the red outlines around my scars were getting smaller and smaller, and the skin outside of them was normal. That's when we all realized the stem-cells were repairing my old injuries."  
  
Liv shook her head in wonder. "That's amazing, Steve, but I notice you still have scars on your chest."  
  
He nodded. "Dad and Jess went back through my medical records and did a timeline of all the old injuries that had healed themselves. Most of the injuries I sustained when Caitlin Sweeney blew up the hospital were gone, but little scratches and bumps from just a few months before that are still there. It seems there's a limit on how old an injury can be for the stem- cells to work on it."  
  
"I see, and, I don't know if you have an answer to this, Steve, if not I can ask Mark. The cells in the areas that have been . regenerated . are they the same biological age as the rest of you?"  
  
Steve frowned in thought and said, "I think I understand what you're asking. The way Dad explained it, at first, it was all new, like a baby, and you could tell that just by looking. The skin was smooth and pale and hairless, which was really strange. But then, as those cells died off and were replaced by my body's natural repair functions, it aged to catch up with the rest of me. By now, I suppose all my bits and parts are somewhere in their seventies, but without about thirty years of wear and tear."  
  
"So," Liv tried to wrap things up, "biologically, you're about seventy merrr," she garbled the word to protect his vanity and he just laughed, "but physically, you're in your mid- to late forties?"  
  
"That's the way dad explained it."  
  
"That's fascinating. I do need to do a thorough study of the research. Did Jess or your dad publish anything?"  
  
Steve's eyes widened, "I hope not."  
  
Liv smiled. "They probably knew you'd feel that way, Steve. I doubt they did. You know, I once mentioned to Keith the possibility of using stem cells to regenerate severed limbs, and he said it gave him the creeps. He also said he'd rather have his hair back."  
  
Steve laughed aloud at that. "I remember him commenting on that a couple times."  
  
"He likes to joke about it," Liv said, "but I think seeing your father at over 100 years old still with a head full of thick white hair really did disturb him for a while."  
  
"You know," Steve told her, "he shouldn't worry about it. He must have something else very special to still be with a woman like you."  
  
Liv looked at him strangely and said, "Thanks, I think."  
  
"I said that badly, didn't I?"  
  
Smiling devilishly, she said, "That depends on what you meant to say."  
  
Steve didn't bother to clarify. He knew she understood that he meant she was extraordinary and Keith had to be a remarkable guy to be good enough for her.  
  
After a thoughtful pause, Liv asked half playfully, "Mark didn't by any chance have any kind of stem cell injections, did he?"  
  
Steve laughed. "No, Dad's longevity is purely natural. My grandmother was in her late nineties when she finally passed away, and Uncle Stacey and Aunt Dora are both going strong. Stacey still runs his original malt shop, but Aunt Dora has retired now. She still travels a lot, but does so for pleasure, not business."  
  
"No kidding? That's fantastic.Is your aunt still bossy?"  
  
"No," Steve said. "Some years ago she *finally* met a man who could stand up to her, and she mellowed out considerably after that. He charmed her so much they were married within the year. He's about thirty years her junior, but she still keeps him busy. They're really good for each other."  
  
"Who's that?" Mark asked as he came in with a glass of slimy white stuff and a dosage cup of clear fluid.  
  
"Ben and Aunt Dora," Steve told him.  
  
"Oh, yes, they are quite the couple," Mark agreed. Looking at Liv, he said, "I couldn't believe it when I met him. My bossy big sister was being demure and polite and willing to compromise. She was acting like a teenager in love. It was."  
  
"Wonderful?" Liv supplied when Mark seemed stuck for a word.  
  
"Unnatural," Mark corrected her with a naughty grin. "But I got used to it, and it is wonderful, too." He handed Steve the glass of goo and said, give it back to me when half of it's still left, and I'll mix in your medication."  
  
Steve gagged down some of the thick drink and handed the glass back to his dad.  
  
"It wouldn't be so bad if." he couldn't think of anything that would redeem the nasty mixture, so he finished lamely, saying, ".I didn't have to drink it."  
  
"I know, son," Mark said sympathetically, "but you have to give the tear in your esophagus time to heal. It should only be a few more days until we can start giving you real foods."  
  
"Like what?" Steve asked bitterly, "Applesauce and tapioca pudding?" He brightened then, and said, "Hey, couldn't I be eating that now, instead of this glop?"  
  
Mark shook his head. "No, son, I'm sorry. Your meals need to be nutritionally balanced. It will help you get better faster."  
  
Steve made a face at the sludge in his glass, and said, "Oh, well, I guess I can survive three more days of this." He downed the drink in one shot and handed the empty glass back to Mark.  
  
"Ok, Steve," Liv said to him. "You're probably going to start getting sleepy really soon, so your dad and I are just going to leave you to get some rest." She kissed her index finger and pressed it to his cheek. "Holler if you need anything. I'll be around all day."  
  
Steve nodded. "Thanks, Liv, Dad. Sorry I was such a grouch."  
  
Mark shook his head. "Don't be. Anyone who knows you knows what to expect."  
  
Steve made a face, and his dad laughed. Then he and Liv left Steve alone with his thoughts.  
  
Steve settled comfortably back into his bed. *His* bed. The thought made him grin. Though he was confined to bed for the next three days and officially on medical leave for another five weeks after that, he was still delighted to be home. Maribeth, Steven, and Jesse had made a small allowance for some light exercise, and, surprisingly, Maribeth had suggested that he resume practicing yoga (which he had only let off because he had gotten so busy when Emily went underground with Moretti) with Liv to keep from getting stiff from the forced inactivity.  
  
Of course, he realized the only reason he was home was that he simply couldn't handle the NG-tube. What was supposed to have lasted a week had amounted to barely four days before he was quite literally begging to have it removed, a procedure which had proven infinitely worse than having it inserted. The anesthetic throat spray and nose drops Liv had prescribed couldn't override the soreness anymore, and his throat and nose had become so raw and inflamed from the constant irritation that when Liv finally did pull the damned thing out it had felt like scalding water rushing up through him and had left him groaning aloud in pain. Tears of agony had sprung to his eyes and quite inexplicably, his nose had begun to run. He had fought the gag reflex as hard as he could, but at the last moment had deposited his stomach contents neatly in the emesis basin Jesse held for him. For several anguished minutes afterward, the fiery burn of stomach acid on delicate tissues had left him cursing, moaning, and gasping for breath. Finally, the nurse Liv had called brought him some liquid antacid, and though it took a great effort of will, he had managed to choke it down and it had soothed him somewhat.  
  
Since Jesse had observed no blood in his vomit, the decision had been made to send him home. Besides the bed rest, at least eighteen hours a day Maribeth had informed him, he was also on a restricted liquid diet. For the next three days, he would be drinking his meals up to six times a day, and a mild liquid tranquilizer would be mixed with his food to help him sleep. Then he would go back to the hospital for another gastroscopy. If the tear in his esophagus was looking better, he could eat real food again and would start a course of antibiotics and antacids intended to cure his ulcer. At that point, the dosage of the tranquilizer would be gradually reduced. He knew he would not be permitted to return to work until long after Moretti testified, and he knew that would irritate him a lot more later, but for now, Emmy was ok, the bad guys were in jail, and it was so good to be home, he just couldn't bring himself to care too much.  
  
With a contented smile, he drifted off to sleep.  
  
  
  
"Steve!" Mark called softly to his son. "Steve, wake up, son, time for you to eat again."  
  
Steve snorted and grunted and rolled over.  
  
With a grin, Mark shook him gently by the shoulder and called, "Steven Michael Sloan, if you don't get out of bed this minute, you'll be late for school!"  
  
"Huh-Wahhhh!" Steve yelled as he sat bolt upright.  
  
Mark burst out laughing and said, "Sorry to startle you, son, but you weren't waking up."  
  
Steve blinked owlishly and said, "It's ok, Dad." Stretching and yawning, he asked, "How long have I been out?"  
  
Consulting his watch, Mark said, "Oh, about three and a half hours I guess."  
  
Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Steve said, "Really? That long? I shouldn't be so tired, should I? All I did was ride home in the car and come straight to bed."  
  
Sitting on the bed beside his son as Steve moved over to make room, Mark reminded him, "You are still not well, you are still taking a tranquilizer, and until you collapsed, you'd been driving yourself far too hard. Thirty or forty years ago, you could have gotten away with that, Steve, but there comes a point when the body decides it's had enough and demands to be taken care of properly. I thought you'd have learned that when you had your heart attack."  
  
Steve looked down at his hands and said, "I really was going to have Jesse check me out as soon as Emily came in, but I just got too sick too fast."  
  
Mark put a hand on his son's shoulder and gave a comforting squeeze. "I realize that son, and I'm not going to lecture any more. I'm just here to make sure you eat.well, drink up."  
  
Steve made a face at the glass of viscous liquid his dad offered him but made no effort to take it.  
  
Giving a stern but sympathetic look, Mark said, "Son, don't make this a battle of wills. I'm too old and too worried about you to fight it. I'll just call Steven and Maribeth and have them take you back to the hospital."  
  
With a sigh, Steve accepted the nasty beverage. He held it for a moment, and, looking up at his dad, said, "You're going to watch and make sure I drink it all, aren't you?"  
  
Mark nodded. "And I'm going to put your medicine in it when it's halfway gone."  
  
Steve didn't fuss or argue, he was just too tired. He drank down the thick fluid as quickly as he could and when he was about half done, offered the glass to his dad to have his medicine mixed in. Then he accepted the remainder of his 'meal', finished it off, and snuggled down in the bed for some more rest. He knew the tranquilizer was making him tired, but besides that, he was feeling so damned defeated. He felt like his life was going on without him.  
  
Cheryl had taken over the search for Em and Moretti. Liv and Keith were helping with that. Ron and Dion had six mobsters and two dirty cops to question and investigate as well as looking into the activities of the three who had died in the first sting operation. Leigh Ann was still on the prowl because no one had given up her name as an accomplice, Roger Gorini had mysteriously gone missing about the time Joey Russo had fingered him as the one out to get Moretti, and the rest of the taskforce was following up other leads Joey had given them.  
  
He still didn't know if Emmy was his daughter, and wasn't sure how to ask if she was. If the answer was yes, he didn't know how he would tell his wife, and he wasn't sure if he *could* tell his son, though he knew someone would have to. Steve hadn't had much chance to talk with Steven about Emily, but in the few exchanges they'd had, he'd realized the young man had become completely lost in her. He thought his son and Liv's daughter would make a great couple if only.  
  
He winced slightly as his stomach started to burn, and rolling over, asked Mark, "Dad, do you think we could maybe start cutting back on the tranquilizer tomorrow. I really hate being stoned all the time."  
  
  
  
Mark was surprised when Steve rolled over and asked him to adjust his medication. He thought his son was asleep already and had been watching him with some concern.  
  
"I'll talk to Maribeth and Jesse about it, son."  
  
"Ok, thanks."  
  
Mark remained seated on the edge of the bed and watched as Steve drifted off to sleep. He was deeply concerned about his son. Steve had been unusually cooperative the past couple days, and Mark thought it had to do with more than just the effects of the medication. He didn't particularly enjoy Steve's ornery moods, but not long after his heart attack, Steve had fallen into a deep depression, and it had started with precisely the same unnatural submissiveness. That time, the depression had snuck up on all of them without anyone noticing, and it had taken a lot of hard work from all of them to pull him out of it.  
  
The poor kid.(Mark grinned. Steve hadn't been a kid for almost fifty years.) .was probably feeling left out. Life, especially his life and the search for Emily, was going on without him. People were working and carrying on while he slept the days away, and finding out that he was *not* indispensable was probably getting him down.  
  
Last time, the depression had caught them all unawares. This time, Mark saw it coming and was determined to do something about it.  
  
  
  
"Ok, thanks, Davis," Liv said. Turning to Mark, she said, "The glove has been redesigned for Steve, and Davis FedExed it this afternoon. We should have it tomorrow morning."  
  
"Do you really think it will do any good?" Mark asked.  
  
Olivia pursed her lips narrowed her eyes and raised an eyebrow. "You know, Mark, I find it very disheartening that a doctor who used to lecture his students on the benefits of Native American traditional healing methods would remain a skeptic about a time-proven method such as biofeedback. Why is it so hard for the medical profession to accept that we do have control over the functions of our own bodies even at the most basic levels, *if* we choose to learn how to take that control?"  
  
"Oh, I believe it can work for some people, Liv. I know it worked for you years ago, but Steve has always been so restless, I doubt he's capable of the kind of focus necessary for it to be truly effective."  
  
Taking a seat on the hearth in front of the big open fireplace in what used to be Steve's apartment, she said brusquely, "Well, I happen to believe he is."  
  
"Good," Mark said cheerfully, "I hope you're right."  
  
"So do I," she snapped.  
  
There was a moment of silence in which a scowling Olivia faced off with a benignly smiling Mark. Then Olivia hung her head and covered her face.  
  
Rubbing her temples, she said, "Listen to me. Mark, I am so sorry. I guess I just get defensive when I think someone is questioning something I believe in."  
  
"It's ok, sweetheart," Mark said in a fatherly tone. "Seems to me the last time we disagreed about my son's recuperative powers you were right, and I didn't object to it then, either." Olivia shot him a questioning look, and he said, "Your being right, I mean. Maybe our little spat is a good sign."  
  
As Mark crossed the room and began rummaging in the closet, Liv threw up her hands and rolled her eyes to heaven. "He doesn't believe in biofeedback," she muttered, "but he believes in signs."  
  
His voice muffled as he searched in the closet, Mark said, "Besides, I suspect you're yelling at me because you're more worried about Emily than you are willing to admit, and *she's* not here for you to yell at."  
  
  
  
In his sleep, Steve felt the tickle of a butterfly lighting on his temple. He reached up to brush it away, and it went, but it was back moments later, this time, on his jaw. He swiped at it, and the persistent little critter came back again, to tease him right between the eyes. He was about to flick it away when he smelled orange blossoms and antiseptic and realized the pesky insect was no bug at all, but his lovely wife come to see him.  
  
He opened his eyes and smiled and said, "Hey, gorgeous."  
  
Maribeth smiled down at him and said, "Hey, gorgeous, to you, too."  
  
"Uh-oh."  
  
"What uh-oh?"  
  
"Mar, when you flatter me like that it means I'm not going to like what comes next. What's up?"  
  
"Y'know," she said with a sigh, leaning back to sit on the edge of the bed, "you're too perceptive. It's annoying."  
  
Steve shrugged and said, "Occupational hazard. Now, what is it that I am not going to like?"  
  
"Dinnertime."  
  
Steve looked to the glass of gloppy 'food' on the nightstand beside him and asked, "Is it drugged?"  
  
Maribeth pulled a face and told him, "Dad said you'd asked about that."  
  
His mood shifted rapidly, and he felt his stomach start to burn again. "You didn't answer me," he snapped.  
  
"It will be, when it's about half gone."  
  
"Why do you always wait until I've finished half of it?"  
  
"So the whole thing doesn't taste like medicine," Maribeth explained as patiently as she could.  
  
Steve grabbed the glass off the nightstand and gulped down half the slop. Handing his wife the glass, he said, "Doesn't matter. It's still gross."  
  
As she mixed the liquid sedative into Steve's drink, she said, "You know, babe," she began counting off on her fingers, "Dad and Steven and CJ and Jesse and Liv and I are just trying to help you get better as fast as possible. If you tried a little harder to remember that, little things like taking your meds and drinking your meals might not seem so bad."  
  
Steve chugged the remainder of the nutrition shake, handed the empty glass to Maribeth, and said, "Yeah, Mar, whatever." He made a great show of yawning and stretching and rolled over, turning his back to her. "If you'll excuse me, I'm feeling rather tired and need to get some sleep."  
  
Maribeth had to bite her tongue to avoid a comeback. Instead, she put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a soft squeeze before she left.  
  
  
  
Maribeth went into the kitchen and put Steve's glass in the sink. Then she went downstairs to Mark's apartment. Taking a seat beside Olivia on the hearth before the fireplace she said, "I see what you mean, Dad. He's getting depressed and slipping fast. He's gone from unusually cooperative to downright pissy in the three hours since you last spoke to him."  
  
"Well, what are we going to do?" Liv asked.  
  
Mark was rummaging about in the closet so his answer was muffled.  
  
"Mmmpf," he grunted as an old blanket fell down in his face. He cast it aside and said, "Well, I've been .ah.ah.ah-choo!" An old hatbox slipped off the shelf and thumped him on the head. "Huh! I didn't know I still had that old thing," he muttered as the box fell open to reveal an old derby hat that used to be part of his costume on some of the occasions when his barbershop quartet performed. He picked up the box, tried on the hat, put the hat back in the box, closed the box, and put it on top of the old blanket.  
  
Emily and Maribeth exchanged amused glances and waited patiently as Mark paused in thought. He turned back to the closet again and said, "I've been thinking, maybe we need to give him something to distract him for a while."  
  
"Well, sure, Dad," Maribeth agreed, "but one can only watch so much television and read so many novels before one gets bored silly."  
  
"AH-HAH!!!" Mark crowed triumphantly, then "OUCH!" as his old movie screen fell over and banged him on the elbow. Clutching a large notebook to his chest, he wrestled the screen back in place. Then he bent over and picked up the hatbox and was trying to maneuver it back into place one-handed when Liv came over and gently guided him away from the closet.  
  
"I'll put things back, Mark, you tell us your plan."  
  
"Ok. Thanks, Liv." He walked over to the couch and sat with the notebook on his lap.  
  
"Maribeth," he said, "the main reason people get so bored eventually with TV and movies and books is that they're fiction."  
  
"Ok, annnnnd what, Dad?"  
  
Liv shut the closet door and settled on the couch beside Mark.  
  
"Well, I really hope you both agree to this, because I think it would really help Steve if we gave him something more personal to distract his mind from his predicament."  
  
"Mark," Olivia pleaded, "don't tease. What do you have in mind?"  
  
He thumped the notebook with his hand and said, "In here, and in another notebook on my desk, I have every letter you have sent me in the past thirty years, Olivia."  
  
Olivia's eyes popped open wide and her jaw dropped.  
  
"Letter writing is becoming a lost art, Liv," he explained. "It started dying with the Internet and thanks to instant messaging, cell phones, voice mail, and wireless technology it is nearly gone today. In fact, you're the only person I know who still sends honest to God letters with any regularity at all. I kept your letters all these years because, well, partly because I wanted to preserve that lost art, but mostly because you were a big part of a very difficult, very wonderful part of my son's life, and I thought one day he might wonder what became of you."  
  
Mark had opened the notebook, and Liv ran a finger lightly over the surface of a yellowing page covered in her own neat, clear handwriting. It was dated July 4, 2003. Emily was ten months old, then. It was the first letter she had written.  
  
"So many memories," she said softly, then, "You kept all of them?"  
  
Mark beamed. "Every single one."  
  
She smiled. "Mark, my whole life is in those letters."  
  
"I know." He looked at Maribeth, who seemed a bit concerned. "Sweetie, I won't do this if you don't want me to, but in every letter, while it's clear she loves Steve, it's even clearer that Keith and Emily are her world."  
  
Maribeth's face rumpled in thought. "You want him to read the letters, don't you?"  
  
Mark nodded. "I figure we'll wait and see how he does with the biofeedback device before we give him the letters, but eventually, he is going to need something else to help keep him from dwelling on his situation."  
  
Maribeth turned to Olivia, "Liv, is there anything in there you wouldn't have me read?"  
  
Olivia thought for a bit. "Some things in those letters are very personal. I'd never want to talk about them with anyone. That's why I wrote them down and sent them to Mark."  
  
Tears were coming to Liv's eyes, and she wasn't sure why. "There's nothing in them for you to worry about, Maribeth, but I can understand why you might want to see that for yourself."  
  
She thought a bit more and said, "You can read them, Maribeth, but I don't ever want to know what you've read, and I don't ever want you to discuss them with anyone else."  
  
Maribeth nodded. Looking at Mark, she said, "Ok, Dad. If you think it will help him, you can give Steve Liv's letters, and tell him it's all right with Olivia and me."  
  
  
  
Steve felt a gentle hand shaking him awake. He rolled over to see Maribeth smiling down at him and said, "Let me guess, chow time."  
  
With an apologetic look she said, "I'm afraid so."  
  
Steve reached out for the glass and quickly choked down about half its contents and handed it back. While Maribeth mixed in the tranquilizer, he said, "You know, you never did tell me what you intended to do about my medication. I really don't want to spend the next three days drugged into unconsciousness."  
  
"I wanted to tell you earlier what I had in mind, but you were too busy tearing my head off."  
  
Shamefaced, he lowered his eyes and said, "I know. I'm sorry."  
  
Maribeth mussed his hair for him, leaned forward, and kissed him on the temple. "I'll let it slide this time, Sloan. I know how you hate to be sick." Then she tucked a finger under his chin and forced him to look up at her. "You do understand, though, that the tranquilizer is to keep you calm so your stomach produces less acid and gives your ulcers a chance to heal, right?"  
  
"But, Mar," Steve was on the verge of whining, and cringed at the sound of his own voice. Pausing and making a conscious effort to change his tone, he continued, "It doesn't just calm me. It makes me so tired. I have been sleeping all day. What time is it?"  
  
He took the glass back from her and finished off its vile contents.  
  
Maribeth didn't need to consult her watch as Steve was on a rather strict feeding schedule. They needed to keep his meals fairly small to avoid too much stress on his digestion, and his medication doses had been calculated to function within his meal schedule.  
  
"It's about nine o'clock, babe."  
  
"So, I have slept about twelve hours today, and I'm going to sleep through the night on the meds you just gave me, right?"  
  
"Yes. Dad says you nodded off about as soon as he got you to bed, and you will sleep soundly through the night."  
  
"That's not normal, Mar. Are you going to adjust the dosage?"  
  
"Well, I've been talking to Olivia." At Steve's look of wide-eyed horror she had to chuckle and say, "Don't worry. She and Keith have been staying here since she wigged out--her words, not mine," Maribeth said as Steve's expression changed as if he'd been offended by what she said.  
  
"Anyway," she continued, "Liv and I have gotten to know one another rather well. She is smart, funny, incredibly loyal, and a lot of fun to be around. Seeing her with Keith has also made me feel a lot more secure about you and me, too, because no woman that in love with her husband could ever be interested in another man."  
  
Steve smiled, genuinely happy for the first time since.he couldn't remember when, and asked, "So, you two get along ok?"  
  
Maribeth smiled back at him, glad to finally give her husband something to be happy about.  
  
"We get along very well, honey. I can't speak for her, but I regard her as a friend, now."  
  
Satisfied, Steve said simply, "Good."  
  
After a quiet moment he looked at Maribeth again and said, "You were going to say something about my medicine."  
  
"Oh, yeah. It seems Olivia is inordinately fond of gadgets."  
  
Steve laughed and said, "Some things never change."  
  
"I take it that's a long-standing personality trait, then?"  
  
"Oh, yes," he told his wife, "and she just loves Velcro."  
  
Maribeth made a face and said, "I'm not sure I want you to elaborate on that." Before Steve could reply, she continued, "As I was saying, she has a friend back east, a Dr. Davis Johnson, who is working on a biofeedback device.Steve?"  
  
He was grinning happily. "You said Davis Johnson?"  
  
"Yeah, why?"  
  
"He was my physical therapist thirty years ago when I got shot. I'm just glad to know he went back and finished med school. What were you saying about him?"  
  
"He has a biofeedback device that is supposed to help you monitor and manage your stress levels. Liv has been working on it with him, and when it arrives, she's going to teach you how to use it. We should have it tomorrow. It's sort of like a glove, fitting over the hand, wrist, and forearm. We've been waiting for it because the sensors have to be correctly placed for the individual. Liv took the necessary measurements when you were sleeping off the anesthetic after the gastroscopy, but Davis made the device for a right-handed person and we had to send it back to be refitted for a leftie."  
  
"Ok, what does that have to do with my medication?"  
  
"As you learn to listen to your body and control your stress, we will start reducing your meds. When we are satisfied that you are taking better care of yourself, we will take you off the tranquilizers completely."  
  
Steve yawned and stretched as the drugs were already making him sleepy, and said, "What about tomorrow? Liv can't very well teach me anything if I can't stay awake."  
  
Maribeth made a face at him and said, "I realize that, too. Starting tomorrow, you'll only get your meds every other meal instead of every meal."  
  
Steve smiled. "Really? Good."  
  
Maribeth kissed him and adjusted the covers as he settled for the night. She sat beside her husband for a long time, stroking his hair and watching him as he slept. Not for the first time, she wished he would just retire. Steve had spent over fifty years in the LAPD, and this was not the first time his work had made him ill. The two of them had some good years left, and she wanted to spend them with her husband. She made up her mind that when he had recovered enough to argue with her without the fear of getting sick, she'd tell him how she felt.  
  
  
  
"Ok," Liv said as she attached the last of the electrodes to Steve's still well muscled chest. "We're going to do away with all this paraphernalia in a day or so," she said, indicating the leads running from Steve's scalp, neck, chest, and abdomen to the video monitor at the foot of the bed.  
  
"Good," Steve muttered. "I already feel like a damned Christmas tree."  
  
"Language," Olivia chided gently.  
  
"Sorry. What happens now?"  
  
Olivia checked to make sure everything was plugged into the machine and the machine was plugged into the wall, and she said, "Well, for the next couple of days I'll be taking readings from the monitor and using them to calibrate the glove. Also, several times a day, I am going to activate a program on the monitor to help you practice some stress-management techniques. Then, when the glove is set up properly, you'll be off the monitor and can start using the glove to help you control your stress levels."  
  
"Alright," Steve said somewhat incredulously, "what do we do now?"  
  
"I'm going to turn on the monitoring equipment, and you're going to do whatever you want for the next hour or so."  
  
"I'd really rather start learning the stress-management exercises you were talking about. The sooner I can get that under control, the sooner Maribeth will take me off the medication, and the sooner I can get back to work."  
  
Olivia had switched on the monitoring equipment and was now sitting on the edge of the bed. "Actually, Steve, right now, that, and sleeping are the two things I *don't* want you to do. I need you alert and awake for at least an hour before we can begin the exercises because I need a reliable baseline reading to set up the program."  
  
Steve frowned, thought a minute, and said, "Will you keep me company? Talk to me about something? We haven't had a chance to just talk the whole time you've been here. I.I've missed you."  
  
With a bit of surprise, Steve realized he *had* missed Liv. A lot. He'd missed her friendship.  
  
Liv smiled. "I can do that. Let's see, what do you want to talk about?"  
  
Steve blew out a gusty sigh and asked, "How are you and Keith holding up?"  
  
"Can't start with an easy question, can you, Deputy Chief Sloan?"  
  
Steve looked down and said, "I'm sorry, Liv. If you'd rather not."  
  
"No, it's ok.We're doing a lot better, Steve, since Maribeth invited us to stay here. She was right about the task force. It created too much pressure at Em's house. I still worry a lot, and her situation is always in the back of my mind, but at least here, I can do everyday things like fixing lunch or reading a magazine without 'Fredo and Donovan muttering in the background or Cheryl, Ron, Dion, and Al meeting in the den or at the table."  
  
"I'm sorry we took over the place like that. I never thought about how it would affect you and Keith."  
  
Liv shook her head. "It's all right, Steve. Given the problem of not knowing who was with us and who was against us, it made sense to get the taskforce out of the precinct. It let you control who had access to what information."  
  
Steve snorted, "For all the good it did us. We had no idea who the leak was until Emmy told me."  
  
"You don't know that it *didn't* help," Liv pointed out. "If you'd have been at the station, who's to say Leigh Ann or one of the others might not have cottoned on to the sting operation and ruined it for you. Working out of Emily's house was the only thing that made sense."  
  
Steve smiled at her and said, "Most people would be furious at having their lives taken over like that. You're too forgiving. Thank you."  
  
"Forgiving, nothing. I'm glad you guys were there. It's my daughter's life and future at stake here, and I appreciated being included in the goings on. I needed to know what was happening. Unfortunately, I suffered a bit of information overload and let my imagination take me on a nightmare trip through the worst possibilities, but Keith managed to save me from that."  
  
Steve wondered for a moment if Liv had even known he was there when she had withdrawn inside herself, but he decided not to ask, saying instead, "How is Keith? Is he doing ok?"  
  
Liv nodded. "He's doing well. He's at Em's house about eight to ten hours a day. He may have retired twenty years ago, but his cop instincts are still good, and he's putting them to use with the taskforce. He wants his baby back safely, and he's pushing them to make sure they get it done. Every night, he gives me an update and tells me what they did during the day. Then he goes for a run on the beach if he feels up to it."  
  
At Steve's questioning look, she laughed and said, "You can't begin to imagine the advances that have been made in the past 30 years in prosthetic technology." She leaned over and whispered playfully in his ear, "I can tickle his feet, now!"  
  
Steve grinned, then burst out laughing as he realized it was the first time since he'd called her in Pennsylvania that he'd seen any spark of her old playfulness. It was a relief to him to know that staying at the beach house had brought out her sense of humor again. It was a sure sign that she was coping better.  
  
"So," she said, still smiling, "tell me what's been going on with you for the past thirty years."  
  
Steve happily chattered away about Maribeth and their twenty-fifth anniversary party, which was several years ago, and a huge surprise. He told her all about Steven's accomplishments and his father's 100th birthday. Then, he talked about Jesse and Amanda's families, how proud he was of CJ and Dion and his goddaughters, Hannah and Lauren. He marveled at (and moaned about) the fact that Amanda and Ron still didn't look old enough to be grandparents and told Liv about all the mischief Dion and Charisse's three children got into.  
  
Before they knew it, an hour had passed.  
  
  
  
Leigh Ann let herself into the warehouse. She knew where to find what she was looking for, but she idled along the way, recalling the first time Mr. Gorini had brought her here.  
  
********** "Sir, this place is filthy!"  
  
"Shh! Relax, sweetheart. Wait 'til we get to my offices in the back. Then you'll know why we're here."  
  
He grasped her hand firmly and guided her through the dark warehouse, weaving in and out around shipping crates and boxes of stuff. Roger had spent years building his import business as a sideline to his journalism, and now, it was a thriving operation. This place was normally a hive of activity around the clock, but, as it was Memorial Day and a time for cookouts and family celebrations, he had given all of his employees the day off. Leigh Ann knew not all of Roger's business was legitimate, but he was a very generous boss, and his employees were fiercely loyal.  
  
Her husband, on the other hand, was a slave driver and a workaholic. Rick was honest to a fault and a good provider, but Leigh Ann had never loved him, not like she loved Roger. Rick was out of town on business today, leaving her with three whining brats to care for because he had given the nanny the day off. That was ok with her, though, for she had made plans, and no trouble-making rug rats were going to spoil them for her. She knew as she dropped the little monsters off with Rick's parents, claiming she needed to care for a sick friend, that today, Roger Gorini would get whatever he wanted from her.  
  
They finally entered the office, and Roger flipped the light switch. The whole room was done in honey-colored wood and navy leather. A brass banker's lamp with a blue glass shade sat on the massive oak desk. Two oak- and-leather wing chairs faced the desk, and a larger chair sat behind it. The left wall was all windows, and Leigh Ann could see fireworks out over the harbor. An oak file cabinet sat behind the chair to the left of the window, and an enormous, overstuffed bookcase wrapped itself around the right half of the back wall and most of the right wall.  
  
Playing the naïve innocent, Leigh Ann walked over to the windows and gasped, "Oh, Mr. Gorini, what a lovely view of the fireworks."  
  
She felt the heat of Roger's body as he moved close to her.  
  
"I hadn't noticed," he breathed in her ear.  
  
She turned to face him.  
  
Smiling, he said, "I brought you here to make some fireworks, not to watch them." Taking her hand, he added, "Close your eyes and follow me, sweetheart."  
  
He led her through a hidden door in the corner of the office and when he told her to open her eyes, she found herself in what amounted to a studio apartment dominated by a large wrought iron bed.  
  
"Oooh, Sir."  
  
********** Leigh Ann smiled as she remembered. Her first time with Roger Gorini had been the best sex of her life to that point, and it had kept getting better after that. She laughed to herself, 'And he thought he needed to blackmail me to get me to help him.'  
  
They had met as the LAPD-Mob investigations were winding down, and because the Valley Bureau had been found completely free of mafia influence, Roger had decided to do a story on the man in charge, Deputy Chief of Police Steve Sloan. By then, the Chief was involved in a battle with the police commissioners. He was fighting to keep his bureau intact. Somehow, the commissioners had gotten the bright idea that gutting the one remaining trustworthy bureau in the city of its personnel to staff the other bureaus would help rebuild the citizen's trust in the LAPD. In the end, Steve had convinced them to spread the transfers out over three years, and, insisting that he needed to have men and women he could trust, he had won the right to have final approval over all personnel hired to replace the ones who had been transferred out.  
  
Since he was too busy to 'waste time chatting with the press' he had assigned Leigh Ann to help Roger with all the background information. As she answered Roger's multitude of questions, giving him information about everything from her boss's education to his family to his restaurant to his years of experience with the LAPD, she began to sense a kindred spirit. This reporter's questions went beyond the scope of 'being thorough'. This man was up to something.  
  
She'd been working for Chief Sloan for several months and had yet to discover a way to hurt him, so, when Roger asked her to lunch, she had accepted, hoping she could find out more about his machinations if they met away from the police station. Though she had gotten no inkling of what the newsman had planned for the Chief, lunch had been an enjoyable diversion, and when Roger had suggested they do it again, she had agreed. Soon they were seeing each other often for lunch, or, when Rick was out of town, dinner and a movie.  
  
Then Roger had asked her to spend the night with him.  
  
********** Leigh Ann drifted gently back to wakefulness to find Roger sitting at the foot of the bed, turning a videotape over and over in his hands. He was magnificent in his nakedness, with a broad chest and trim waist. He carried not an ounce of extra fat, and he had an all-over tan that spoke of frequent naked sessions in the tanning booth or on a private beach. He clearly took good care of himself, and he was a welcome change from her pasty, flabby Rick.  
  
He smiled benignly down at her and said, "Good, you're awake."  
  
She smiled back and, pointing at the tape, she asked, "What's that?"  
  
He grinned broadly and said, "Something I want you to see."  
  
He crossed the room and popped the tape in the VCR. On the big-screen TV, she soon saw a larger-than-life image of herself writhing in the throes of passion. Roger had ridden her hard, and like the wanton woman she was, she had cried out for more even as he was pounding into her with all he had. As she watched the tape, she felt herself becoming aroused, but Roger must have mistaken it for fear.  
  
He clicked the tape off and she jumped.  
  
"Now, my dear, you are probably wondering what I want in exchange for that video tape."  
  
She played along. Her mother had taught her to give men what they wanted until they got used to it. Then, when you held out, they were desperate to surrender to your whims just to get more of what you offered. "Y-Yes, tell me, p-please."  
  
Studying his fingernails as if trying to remember when he was due for his next manicure, he said, "You work for Deputy Chief Sloan, correct?"  
  
"Y-yes."  
  
"You will be my mole in his office. When I need information, you will get it for me. When something interesting happens, you will tell me immediately, or."  
  
"Or what, sir?"  
  
"Or your husband will see that tape and your marriage will be over."  
  
She laughed aloud, knowing that she had caught him in his own trap.  
  
"It was a marriage of convenience, sir, the honeymoon was over before it ever started. He was rich, and I wanted a rich husband."  
  
She grinned as Roger started to panic.  
  
"You.you'll lose your children."  
  
She shook her head. "I never wanted a bunch of snotty-nosed brats to begin with, Mr. Gorini. I just had 'em to keep Rick happy. Sex with the Pillsbury Doughboy, some stretch marks, and labor pains seemed a small price to pay for a seven million dollar mansion in the Hollywood Hills, a yacht, and a membership at the country club. The nanny did all the work after they were born."  
  
"If he divorces you, you'll be out of that mansion in a heartbeat."  
  
"No, sir, I won't. It was a wedding present from my husband. The prenuptial agreement requires him to pay for maintenance and upkeep as well as the domestic staff and child support for as long as I live there, or at least until I remarry. Then he still pays for the kids."  
  
Roger had gone pale under his tan. He was a man who planned things carefully, and he had never planned for this.  
  
She stood up and moved close to him, tracing a finger down his chest and over his rippling abs, she said, "Don't look so upset, sir." She gently wrapped her hand around his now-limp penis and, as she felt him respond to her touch, she said, "You still have something to bargain with."  
  
With a growl, Roger picked her up and threw her onto the bed with such force it knocked the wind out of her. To her delight, he climbed up beside her quickly. With one hand, he made himself hard while he used the other to keep her wet, not even giving her time to catch her breath. She nearly fainted for lack of air as he took her roughly, both of them sweating and grunting and moaning until they came together in a screaming climax.  
  
After what seemed like hours, Roger had rolled off her and asked, "You're going to do what I want, aren't you?"  
  
"Of course, sir."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I want to have a powerful man."  
  
"Your husband is a powerful man," he said.  
  
Leigh Ann laughed aloud. "Rick is a rich man, but he is still a slave to money, family, and business. He's hardworking, responsible, safe, and wealthy, but he is not powerful."  
  
"You don't mind betraying your boss?"  
  
She smiled, her eyes alight, and said, "I've always wanted to destroy Steve Sloan. I just wasn't sure how to go about it. If you have a plan, sir, I'll do whatever I can to help you."  
  
"Why?"  
  
She told him her reasons for wanting to ruin the Deputy Chief, and he shared his with her. They reached an agreement and sealed the deal with another coupling. As they drifted back to earth for the third time that night, he said, "Leigh Ann."  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"You can call me Roger."  
  
"I'd rather not, sir." At his questioning look, she explained. "It's just a mild kink, sir, but Rick doesn't get it. He never understood power games. He wanted me to be his equal in the bedroom, but without knowing it, the fool became my slave. He's far too solicitous and accommodating. It's just no fun. I much prefer to think of myself as your servant instead of your lover, if you don't mind, sir."  
  
Roger had leered at her, shoved her head down between his legs, and said, "Well, then, woman, serve me well!"  
  
********** In the wee hours of the morning, they got up to shower together. Roger had to be at the station for the six a.m. broadcast, and Leigh Ann had to pick up her children. More importantly, Roger's employees would start arriving within the hour, and they couldn't really afford to be seen together.  
  
Leigh Ann had never been able to sing well, but she liked to whistle, and she could do that well, so, when Roger started humming a popular tune in the shower, she began to accompany him. Even when he stopped, she continued, not softly, either, but with a loud, glorious trill. She was quite proud of her peculiar ability and when she slipped easily from pop tunes to the "Spring" movement of Vivaldi's The Four Seasons, she was profoundly delighted to see him watching her with rapt pleasure.  
  
He smiled and said, "You sound just like a little bird, maybe better."  
  
She broke off just long enough to smile, kiss his nose, and say, "Then I shall be *your* little bird, sir, and I shall tell you everything you wish to know."  
  
********** Taking a deep breath to steel herself for what she expected to find behind the office door, Leigh Ann turned the knob and walked in. The room stank of decomposition and flies buzzed ceaselessly about her. Roger had given his employees a week off for Easter, so the body had not yet been discovered. Roger himself wasn't a religious man, but some of his employees were, and he knew the value of keeping them happy. As she walked to the hidden door and slipped into Roger's apartment, Leigh Ann did not look at the body. The police would find it and dispose of it soon enough.  
  
In his last phone call, Roger had told her what was about to happen to him and where to find the items she needed and what to do with them. They had said their goodbyes as Gaudino's limousine pulled up outside the warehouse, and Roger had promised to see her in hell if she failed. His threat did not frighten her. Even if she believed in hell, she did not intend to let him down. She wanted to see Steve Sloan crushed as much as he ever had, and she would do what was necessary to accomplish that.  
  
She found the catalog in the safe and located the numbers identifying the tape she wanted. Leaving the record book open on the bed, a goldmine of information to keep the cops busy for weeks, she went to the far wall of the apartment and slid a panel aside. She took only one copy of the tape she needed. The other would worry Chief Sloan sick, and the rest of the tapes would serve nicely with the directory to give the police more leads than they really wanted to investigate. Then she went to the tape recorder and played back the cassette that was in there.  
  
She heard a gunshot, a gasp, and a gagging sound. Then she heard Vinnie Gaudino's voice saying, "Rogelio, you were a good boy. It's a shame you couldn't get rid of Moretti for me."  
  
She smiled sadly, sorry to lose Roger, but pleased to know that even in his last hours he had planned a way for her to continue to serve him. She also felt hopeful that she would see him again soon.  
  
Finally, she went to the nightstand and got the gun he'd had made especially for her. It was constructed of a high impact, shatter resistant ceramic polymer and would not set off the metal detector at the federal courthouse. It would fold up to fit neatly in her purse, and in the x-ray machine, it would look like the small plastic case she used to carry her feminine hygiene items. The bullets were made of a different sort of compound that would fragment when they hit a bone inside a body and tear the surrounding soft tissue to shreds. She had four of them, and they were easily concealed inside a lipstick tube.  
  
She would get to the trial early. She wanted to see it all. Then, after Moretti had testified, and Gaudino was convicted, she would kill the Chief.  
  
  
  
"All right," Olivia said as she finished setting up the stress control exercise on the monitors at the foot of Steve's bed. "This is sort of like a video game, Steve. You gain or lose points depending on your performance. You'll start out with zero points, and you can go into the negative range."  
  
Steve nodded to indicate his comprehension so far, and Liv continued.  
  
Switching on the first monitor. A thin green line traced across the lowed third of the screen. "This isn't really part of the exercise," Liv said, "but it will help you monitor your stress as you get started. Right now, it is all in the green, which is good. When it moves to yellow, that's not so good, but still ok. Red is bad. Later, we'll switch it off and see how you do with just the video game."  
  
"Ok," Steve said, "Can we get started now?"  
  
"In a minute," Liv told him.  
  
The line on the active monitor crept into the yellow.  
  
Liv arched an eyebrow at him and said, "Impatient, are we?"  
  
Steve didn't answer, but his response was plain as the line soared suddenly into the red.  
  
"Steve, listen to me," Olivia said, her voice low and calm. "You have to get a grip. I'm sorry if you didn't appreciate the joke, but you simply can't let every little thing set you off."  
  
The line was still climbing. "Well, tell me what to do, then, Liv!" Steve's voice was tinged with anger and frustration, but also a little fear. It was one thing for him to be in a mood and know it was getting worse, but it quite disturbed him to see evidence of it on a computer screen, and somehow, the red line made him worry all the more about his health. His stomach started to burn, and it shot straight up to the edge of the screen.  
  
"Ok, Steve," Liv said in an even voice. "Think about it. What is your goal here? What are you trying to do?"  
  
"Calm down."  
  
"Right. And what's upsetting you?"  
  
"I-I don't know."  
  
"I think you do, but I'll tell you just to save time. You don't like seeing that line in the red, do you?" By now, the readout had leveled off at a high plateau in the red.  
  
"No, I guess not."  
  
"Then start by shutting your eyes."  
  
Steve did as he was told, and immediately the line dropped to the low part of the red range.  
  
"Good," Liv crooned. "Now, take a few deep breaths.That's it. Unclench your fists.Good."  
  
The line moved slowly through the yellow and then down to the middle of the green range. Just where it should be for someone who was awake and alert but calm. Liv waited several minutes to see if it would stay there. It did.  
  
"How do you feel?"  
  
Steve thought a moment. "Better."  
  
"How much better? Where do you think the line is?"  
  
"I don't know."  
  
The line moved up a little, but not much.  
  
"Listen to your body," Liv encouraged him. "How fast is your heart beating? What is your breathing like? Are you tense or relaxed?"  
  
After a moment, Steve said, "I feel good. I think it's green again."  
  
"Open your eyes and see for yourself."  
  
Steve opened his eyes and looked at the monitor. Then he looked at Liv and smiled. "That wasn't so bad."  
  
Liv gave him a grin and said, "It gets tougher."  
  
The line moved up slightly, but it was still well in the green.  
  
"Now, I'm going to start the stress management exercise," Liv said. "I'll show you how it works, reset it, then leave you to practice with it for a while, ok?"  
  
"All right," Steve agreed. He was much more confident now, knowing how easily he had been able to bring the line back into the green.  
  
Liv tapped a few commands on the keyboard and a cigar shaped yellow object popped onto the second monitor screen. Moments later, some old, familiar music started playing. 'In the town where I was born lived a man who sailed to sea.'  
  
Steve looked at Olivia and laughed. "It's been years since I've heard that song," he said.  
  
'So we sailed up to the sun 'til we found the sea of green.'  
  
"Ok, so, I had an attack of nostalgia when we were putting this thing together. It's a shame most of the people who use it probably won't recognize the tune."  
  
'We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine.'  
  
Liv and Steve listened to the whole song, Liv singing along, and Steve just bobbing his head, knowing it really wasn't a good idea for him to sing. When the song ended, they looked at each other and laughed. To Steve it seemed ages since he had enjoyed anything. It was nice to have Liv around again because she never let him take anything too seriously.  
  
"Liv."  
  
"Yeah?" Her eyes were still bright with laughter.  
  
"I.I'm glad you're here." It sounded lame, even to him, but it was sincere.  
  
She smiled softly at him and said, "I'm glad to be here."  
  
They shared a quiet moment. Briefly, Steve sensed that something was growing in the silence, something old and comfortable, but when Liv spoke again, it was gone as if it had never been there.  
  
She settled beside him and handed him a game controller. The little plastic device was lost in his huge hands and Liv made a mental note to tell Davis he needed them in more than one size. After all, the equipment should be easy for the user to handle; the game itself was challenging enough. "The green button starts the game and the red one pauses. Hit the red one twice to quit altogether." Indicating the directional keys she explained, "You have left, right, forward, back, and, because this is a submarine underwater, you also have up and down." She pointed to a blue button in the lower right labeled UP and said, "This is Up Periscope. Sometimes, you catch a break and you have enough time to look ahead. The periscope will stay up as long as you hold the button. Let it go, and the periscope comes down."  
  
"So, I'm the captain, am I?"  
  
"No, Steve, you're the pilot. The captain gives the orders. The pilot steers the sub."  
  
"I see. Where's the speed control?"  
  
Pointing to the monitor that showed Steve's stress levels still comfortably in the green, she said, "Right there. The more agitated you get, the faster the sub goes. You can never completely stop, but there is a little lag time between the change in stress and the change in speed. If something startles you and the chart shoots up into the red, if you bring it down in just a few seconds, it won't affect your sub. Your going to be traveling through a minefield, and you need to remain calm to navigate safely. Think of the mines as the normal stresses of daily life.running out of your favorite cereal, getting stuck in the slow lane on the freeway. Little things."  
  
Steve laughed at the analogy, "Ok, sounds easy enough to deal with."  
  
"Oh, it gets harder," she gave him a wicked grin. "First the number of mines increases. Sometimes there will be so many so close together that you can't go around them. What will you do about that?"  
  
Steve blinked, knowing it was a trick question, but not knowing the answer. "Uh, blow up?"  
  
"Look at the control pad and guess again."  
  
"Oh! Duh! Go over them or dive under them."  
  
"Good. Occasionally, you will face a major crisis like a sea monster, a giant squid, or a really irritated whale. *Don't run*."  
  
"Well, what do I do, then?"  
  
"Try to avoid it. If it catches you, stay calm, and just concentrate on dealing with the mines. You'll have to react to them a little sooner, but you can sail around them with the squid or whatever hanging on to you."  
  
"All right, so the secret is to stay cool. Anything else?"  
  
"One last thing. If you panic and your stress levels go too high, the sub makes more noise as it runs faster. If the enemy hears you, he'll start chasing you and you'll be dodging torpedoes from behind as well."  
  
"Ok, can I start now?"  
  
"Sure, but whenever it asks you if you want to save your score, click yes. The game and the stress chart are both time indexed and synchronized through the computer, and saving your score saves that data for me. It's one more tool to help me calibrate the glove."  
  
"Ok."  
  
Steve hit start, and immediately found his little yellow submarine facing a mine. He swerved to the left and immediately found himself facing two more. Going around them to the right, he suddenly saw a vast array of mines with various creatures floating through it, and he felt his heart rate jump. How in the world was he ever to get through that? The sub speeded up then, and his heart pounded more.  
  
"Take one obstacle at a time, Steve," came Liv's soothing voice. "You don't have to face them all at once."  
  
Nodding, he took a deep breath, then another.  
  
"That's it, focus on your breathing."  
  
The sub slowed down and he navigated the next several obstacles easily. Then he faced a wall of mines five wide and three to five high. He felt his pulse accelerate, and soon the sub was sailing forward too fast. Remembering what he did last time, he took a few deep breaths. The sub slowed down, he hit the reverse button to back himself up, then he made the sub dive.  
  
Just as he was confident that he would safely pass the wall of mines, a tentacle covered with suckers swept across the bottom of his field of view.  
  
"Oh shit!" He yelled, and panicking, he slammed the back an up buttons together. Several seconds later, the computer picked up the increase in his stress levels and slammed the sub up and back into the mines he had almost succeeded in avoiding. An explosion sounded, the screen went white, then black, then back to the ocean blue with mines and creatures dotting the expanse, and yellow letters flashed, 'You died! Save score?'  
  
"Son of a."  
  
"Steve."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
Following Liv's instructions, he clicked, 'Yes,' then whacked the start button again.  
  
"Pause it."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I said so."  
  
He slapped the pause button then looked at her sullenly.  
  
"Look at the stress monitor."  
  
He did. It was in the red.  
  
"What about it?"  
  
"What's the point of this game, again?"  
  
Sighing, he said, "To lower my stress levels."  
  
"Not quite. You're learning to control them. Now, knowing how high stress affects the game, does it make sense to start a new round when you're this agitated?"  
  
He pouted a bit, but not seriously. "No."  
  
"So, give yourself a chance to settle down."  
  
Steve nodded, put the controller down, stretched, closed his eyes, took several deep breaths, and relaxed for a few moments. When he opened his eyes, he saw the monitor well within the green again. Looking to Liv, he asked, "May I start now, please."  
  
Smiling, she waved toward the screen and said, "Be my guest."  
  
Liv sat with Steve for several more rounds until she was satisfied that he fully had the hang of it. Then, squeezing his shoulder gently, she said, "Keep working with it. I'll see you later."  
  
Steve just nodded, fully focused on navigating through the minefield.  
  
  
  
In no time at all, it seemed, Liv returned with a glass of goop saying, "Ok, shut the game off. Time for you to eat and take your medicine." 


	19. Liv's Letters

Please read the disclaimer at the end of this chapter.  
  
I know it has been a long time since I posted. I seem to be bogged down in this story, and I am sorry. I will continue to post this a chapter at a time until I finish it, but I will never again post a work in progress.  
  
It has been just a week since Steve collapsed at Emily's feet.  
  
  
  
(Chapter 19. Malibu beach house, Brentwood. March 24.)  
  
Mark stood in the doorway of the master bedroom and watched his son pretend to sleep. He was very worried about Steve, for though his physical condition had improved somewhat, his emotional state had very suddenly deteriorated.  
  
At first, when Olivia had started Steve working with the biofeedback equipment, he had thought Steve was coming out of his depression. Everyone had been astounded by how quickly Steve had learned to maneuver the submarine by controlling his response to stress. Instead of just hiding his negative feelings, he seemed to be letting them go, if not letting them out. By the end of the first day, he could go hours without mishap on the game. Liv took him off the monitor ahead of schedule, and within hours, he had learned to control the glove.  
  
The glove was a thin, flexible, breathable membrane that fit like a second skin over Steve's right hand and forearm. It had red, amber, and green diodes on the back of the hand that lit up to indicate Steve's stress levels. Delicate, precisely placed sensors measured Steve's pulse, blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels, and most importantly, his galvanic skin response. While most of the measurements were good general indicators of Steve's overall stress level and his emotional well being, they could be affected by factors such as room temperature and physical activity. Only the GSR could not be fooled. When Steve was feeling stress, he could concentrate on controlling his breathing and sit very still, and the other monitors would drop quickly into the green, but when he was stressed, the electrical conductivity of his skin would remain high and the GSR monitor would stay in the red until Steve had truly calmed down.  
  
To show them all how accurate the glove was, and probably to show off a little as well, Mark thought, Olivia had engaged Steve in several hands of poker, promising to soundly trounce him as she had years ago when he was in the hospital recovering from injuries he had received on the job. As Maribeth, Mark, Jesse, Amanda, Steven, and CJ all watched first with amusement, and later with concern, Liv had Steve keep the glove hidden from her view while allowing the others to see it. Whenever Steve was bluffing, claiming a good hand when it was really bad or complaining about the deal when he really had a good hand, the GSR diodes would glow red, indicating stress and tension even if the rest only showed slight elevations. For her part, Olivia had read Steve perfectly, calling every bluff and folding early every time he had half a chance of winning. Steve's increasing frustration with losing showed as all the diodes on the glove crept into the amber and eventually into the red. To Mark's relief, Steve finally called an end to the game. If Steve hadn't finally quit, Mark would have told Liv what was happening, and Steve would probably have been angry with them both.  
  
Just this morning, Mark had again seen the accuracy of the GSR monitor when Steve went in for his gastroscopy. This time, because he had not yet been medicated and he wasn't already weakened by illness, Jesse had fully sedated him. As they waited for the anesthetic to take hold, all the monitors dropped from amber to green except for the GSR. Only when Steve was fully unconscious, did it finally go green. As Steve came to after the procedure, most of the indicators remained green, but again, the GSR climbed to amber slowly and shot into the red when Jesse came back into the room. It only returned to the green when Jesse told him the gastroscopy was clear. The tear in his esophagus had healed satisfactorily and he could begin eating real food again.  
  
A few minutes later, when Steven and Maribeth entered the office and began explaining the next course of treatment, the diodes again went from green to amber. Steve still had five weeks of medical leave, and he would be taking powerful antibiotics and antacids for at least that long. During that time, he would still be required to get at least twelve hours bed rest a day until further notice, and he was forbidden from engaging in any police work aside from attending the Gaudino trial which was scheduled to start in four days.  
  
"Come on, Maribeth, I could just work half days, go in at seven and work until one."  
  
"No, Steve, that's exactly the problem," she insisted. "Your idea of a half day is six hours. Normal people don't work twelve-hour shifts. You need to slow down. You need to give yourself time to recover, and I am going to make sure your do."  
  
"Maribeth, you know my job."  
  
"I know your job put you in the hospital, *again*, just a week ago, and you are a damned fool if you think I'm going to let you go back to work again this soon."  
  
"Look."  
  
Mark tried heroically to suppress a grin. His daughter-in-law wasn't about to let her husband get a word in edgewise.  
  
"No, you look, mister. You *will* do what we tell you, or you *will* be in the hospital again."  
  
Mark saw all the diodes in the glove go red and wished he could do something about it.  
  
"So," Steve said tightly, "this decision has already been made without me, hasn't it."  
  
Trying valiantly to stop the argument, Steven stepped in. "Yes, Pops, the decision has been made, but not by us." At Steve's quizzical look, the young man continued. "This is your body telling you what it needs, and this time, you need to listen. In the past thirty years, not many advances have been made in the treatment of ulcers. I don't know why, but it's just been a neglected field of research. You are getting the most up-to-date treatment available, but ulcers are still very difficult to treat because the bacteria causing them lives within the mucous lining of the stomach and it's difficult to deliver medication to the infection site. We can only accomplish so much so fast, and if you keep going on like you had been, well.Pops, things could have been a whole lot worse than they were last week."  
  
Steve appeared to consider what his son had said, then he studied his nails as if contemplating getting a manicure. Finally, without looking up, he said, "I need a ride home. I'm still too groggy to drive after the gastroscopy."  
  
  
  
Maribeth had driven them home. She and Mark had tried repeatedly to engage Steve in conversation the whole way, but he just grunted monosyllabic responses or ignored them completely. Once she'd gotten Steve settled to sleep off the lingering effects of the anesthetic, she went out to the kitchen where Mark and Liv were having coffee. She gave them Steve's medications, two powerful antibiotics and an acid controller, along with a dosing schedule, and then she and Mark tried to explain for Liv what Steve's reaction to his prescribed treatment had been.  
  
"I know you and Keith needed some quiet time together," Maribeth said, "and I'm not saying I think you should have come to the hospital with us, but I do wish you could have been there. It was just too strange, Liv. First, he was really nervous, then he was kind of pleading to be allowed to work what he called half days."  
  
Liv laughed. "Six or eight hours, I'll bet."  
  
Maribeth nodded, "Seven to one. Then, when I laid down the law, he got all pissy, which I expected. What bothers me though, is his reaction when Steven explained how serious things could have been. He just folded, no arguments, nothing. He said he needed a ride home, and that was it."  
  
"I suppose it's too much to hope that he has finally realized a man his age just has to stop once in a while when his body decides it's had enough," Liv said hopefully.  
  
Mark snorted. "Pig-headed fool. He gets it from his mother's side, you know."  
  
"Oh, I don't know about that, Dad," Maribeth said with a grin, then looking serious again, she said, "but ulcers can be a very serious condition at his age, and I am worried that if we let him slide into depression like he did after his heart attack, his medical condition will deteriorate along with his mental state."  
  
Nodding, Olivia said, "I agree. I know about depression from firsthand experience, and one of the first things you do is stop looking after yourself." She looked to Mark, "If you still think it will do any good, now might be the time to let him read those letters. I told you before," she continued, turning back to Maribeth, "I don't mind if you read them. I can understand why you might want to, and for that matter, if you and Steve feel you need to share something with Steven, that's ok, too, but please, don't ask me to talk about anything in there, I.I'm not sure I can do that."  
  
Maribeth reached out and covered Liv's hand with her own. It was so small she had to remind herself that she was talking to a grown woman in order to keep the 'mom' tone out of her voice. "I understand, Olivia, and I know it must be difficult, but we will respect your wishes. Thank you for still caring about my husband enough to open yourself up like this for him."  
  
Liv smiled fondly, then. "How could I not? I was broken, and he fixed me. He gave me the life I have now when he stepped aside thirty years ago."  
  
Maribeth had left for the hospital a few minutes later, leaving it to Mark to decide when and how to best broach the subject of Liv's letters with Steve.  
  
  
  
And now, Mark found himself, at four in the afternoon, standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, clutching two large notebooks full of old letters, and watching his son pretend to sleep. Steve had been resting far longer than he needed to sleep off the aftereffects of any anesthetic he'd been given, and the simple fact that he was choosing to remain in bed longer than necessary was cause enough for concern. The lump on the bed was covered head to foot with a fluffy comforter, save for one arm flung out across the mattress. On that arm, four little dots glowed happily green, and one shone an angry red. The very air in the room breathed sadness and frustration.  
  
"Son?"  
  
"What?" the lump grunted sullenly.  
  
Mark sighed. He wasn't going to play this game today. It was too soon. "Look at me when I'm talking to you, Steve."  
  
Even from the doorway, Mark could feel the lump tense. He couldn't allow this to become a battle of wills, not yet. "Now."  
  
The lump shifted and turned, and finally, Mark saw his son emerge from the folds of the bedclothes. For all his seventy odd years, Steve could still be pig-headed stubborn and childish when the mood struck him.  
  
"What?" This time the response was not only sullen, but also tinged with anger, and Mark had no doubt, had he been anyone else in the world, that anger would have contained a threat as well.  
  
Steve looked positively miserable, and Mark's heart went out to him, but knowing Steve's propensity to interpret sympathy for pity, and knowing how Steve hated to feel pitied, Mark kept his compassion to himself. Making his tone as stern as he could manage, he said, "I'm worried about you, son. We all are."  
  
Steve looked his father over for a minute. Why did he have those two binders with him? Steve thought he'd seen them in the downstairs closet once when he'd helped his dad get something out or put something away. He knew his dad was just waiting for him to ask, and he was determined not to give him the satisfaction. He sighed deeply and said, "Look, Dad, I will take all the pills you and Maribeth and anyone else want to give me, until I rattle like a maraca, if that's what it takes to satisfy you. I will get plenty of rest, and I will stay away from work, but don't expect me to be happy about it."  
  
Mark moved over to the bed and sat beside his obstinate son.  
  
"That's exactly what we're worried about, Steve." Steve tried to protest, but Mark just kept talking. "Do you remember how you felt and acted after your heart attack? Do you remember what it was like when you got so depressed?"  
  
As Mark waited patiently, Steve considered his answer. When he'd finally got to feeling better, Steve had secretly done some research on his condition, and was surprised to find that severe depression could even cause permanent memory loss. As near as he could figure, there were about three weeks of his life still unaccounted for in his mind, but he would never admit that to anyone.  
  
Shrugging, he said simply, "Yeah.I guess so."  
  
Mark stared at his son a long moment, then, trying to work out what he'd just been told. Even he hadn't realized Steve had been so depressed that he would suffer amnesia, yet that's what he seemed to be admitting without really saying it. Testing his theory, Mark said, "Well, I suppose you remember enough to know you never want to go there again."  
  
Steve tried, and failed miserably, to keep the surprise from his face. Except for a few years in his misspent youth, he and his dad had always been close, but it never failed to amaze him how well his father could read him. Sometimes, he thought his dad might even have a touch of ESP where he was concerned.  
  
For a long while, he sat silently, tracing patterns on the bedspread with his index finger. He always felt he could tell his dad anything, but this? He wasn't sure. He felt his chest tighten and a lump formed in his throat. He saw the damned diodes on the glove, all of them glowing amber and red now, and he slipped his arm beneath the blankets. How much did his father know? How much could he stand to hear?  
  
"Son?"  
  
Taking a deep breath, Steve admitted as much as he dared. "I remember wishing I had died of the heart attack, Dad. Then the next thing I recall is wanting to take a walk on the beach. I still wasn't feeling good, then, but I knew I was better than I had been in a long time. I'm not too clear on what all happened in between."  
  
Clearing the frog that had formed in his throat, Mark patted his son's leg and said, "Sometimes, son, it's good to forget the details."  
  
None of them had ever been able to decide whether Steve's alcohol-sleeping pill binge had been an actual suicide attempt or just clumsy self- medication exacerbated by very poor judgment due to depression, so they had tacitly decided not to discuss the matter. Upon waking up in the hospital yet again, Steve had been so overwrought he'd required sedation and had spent the next three weeks in the psych ward, much of the time wearing a straight jacket to prevent him from injuring himself.  
  
Mark had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, reliving those horrible, endless days of worry when Steve's voice called him out of his reverie.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Hmmm? Oh, well, Steve, the way you've been acting lately, sometimes cranky, sometimes cooperative, sleeping way too much.That's how it all started after your heart attack, and well, like I said, we're all worried about you."  
  
Steve had been cooperating as much as he could lately, but now he balked. "I am not going to see a shrink, Dad."  
  
Mark grinned. He had known that protest would come, would have been frantic with worry if it hadn't. "I'm not suggesting that you do, son, not yet anyway." He bit his tongue to keep from laughing at his son's confusion.  
  
Steve was truly perplexed. What, other than psychiatric treatment, could his father have been working up to? He knew he'd never find out if he didn't ask. "Ok, I'll bite, what are you suggesting? And what are the notebooks for?"  
  
"Glad you asked," Mark said, barely suppressing the humor in his voice. "But I'm not going to tell you." He knew he had Steve's interest now, and that alone was an improvement from when he'd walked in. "I think what's in here might help you.cope with your situation a little better, and all interested parties have given me permission to try this, but if you want to know what's in here, you'll have to find out for yourself."  
  
As both nightstands were cluttered with books, magazines, a water carafe and glass, and other miscellany, Mark moved over to the vanity and put the notebooks down. Then he fished a paper dose cup out of the pocket of his cardigan.  
  
"Now, it's time for your meds. No sedatives, but don't be surprised if the antibiotics make you nauseous or give you diarrhea."  
  
He poured Steve a glass of water from the carafe and watched as his son washed the pills down. Then he took a bottle of liquid antacid out of his other pocket and measured a dose of the stuff into the paper cup for his son. Steve tossed it back, made a face, and gestured for another glass of water.  
  
When he had washed away the taste, Steve grimaced again and said, "That stuff's almost as bad as the nutrition shakes."  
  
Mark laughed slightly. "At least there's not nearly so much of it," he said, heading for the door.  
  
"Thank God for small favors, huh?" Steve mustered a half-grin. Loath as he was to admit it, that was the chalky liquid's one redeeming quality. "So," he said, eyeing the notebooks on the vanity, "what do you have in those binders, Dad?"  
  
Giving his son his best, disconcerting, up-to-something grin, Mark said, "See for yourself," and pulled the door shut behind him.  
  
  
  
"Well," Liv asked expectantly, as Mark came into the living room.  
  
"I definitely got his interest," Mark smiled.  
  
"But will it do him any good?"  
  
Mark nodded. "I think it will. I think if he starts to read them, it will distract him from his own situation long enough for him to accept it. Then, I think he'll be ok."  
  
"What did he say when you told him what you had?"  
  
"Sweetie, I didn't tell him," Mark said mischievously, "but I got him curious, and sooner or later, he won't be able to stand the mystery any more, and he'll have to find out for himself."  
  
Olivia giggled with delight and smiled at Mark. "Oh, you are wicked, aren't you?"  
  
Mark nodded regally and added, "And very good at it, too. I put them down on the vanity so he has to get out of bed to get to them."  
  
  
  
Steve sighed and shifted position. He'd been trying to read one of his magazines for the past half hour, but he kept catching himself staring at those damned notebooks. Steve loved his father, but sometimes, the man was positively infuriating. He felt like a cat, being taunted by a twitching bit of ribbon, but he'd be damned if he'd pounce.  
  
He rolled onto his side, turning his back to the binders on the vanity, and spread the magazine open on the mattress next to him. They were plain, black vinyl binders, somewhat dusty, and he'd noticed they were labeled only with dates, 2003 to 2018, and 2019 to.and the last date was blank. Whatever was collected in there, apparently, the collection was incomplete. Steve realized his shoulder was aching and his arm was shaking from the strain of supporting his upper body, and he hadn't even started to read the article in front of him yet.  
  
He rolled over onto his stomach, pushed the pillows out of the way, and propped himself up on his elbows with the magazine open in front of him. He started with the captions of the photos first to find out what the article was about. As he reached up to turn the page, he caught sight of the diodes on the glove, all of them glowing amber, and groaned. In his mind's eye, he saw his father's smug grin again, as he left the room without giving away a thing, and suddenly all the diodes turned red.  
  
Sighing, Steve hung his head and knew he was beaten. He closed the magazine and tossed it onto the bedside table. Then he stood up, stretched and cracked his back, straightened the bedcovers and the pillows, and stalked over to the vanity, feeling all the while as if someone was going to bring him a bowl of milk and a toy mouse.  
  
The binders were thick, four or five inches each, and crammed full of papers. They were heavy, too, as Steve lifted them from the vanity and carried them over to the chair by the window. Whatever they held, if he was going to cave in to his father's taunting, he wanted to do it in a good light.  
  
Steve settled into the armchair, put his feet up on the ottoman, checked the spines of the notebooks, and dropped the one with the most recent dates to the floor beside him with a soft thump. The other he held in his lap for several minutes, wondering what it could contain. What possible reading material could hold so much meaning for him that it could make him forget his current wretched state? His dad believed that it would pull him out of his foul mood, and that in itself, was enough to convince Steve that it was powerful, near magical stuff, but what could it be?  
  
Taking a deep breath, he opened the cover of the volume in his lap. The faint perfume of lavender and a musty old house mingled with the sharp tinge of decaying paper. Neat, clear handwriting, long, fluid lines of text spilled across the page. The paper was a delicate blue, yellowing at the edges and sprinkled with a border of flowers and butterflies at the bottom. If the floral scent hadn't been enough, Steve would have recognized Liv's orderly, delicate script anywhere.  
  
He turned the pages of the notebook. Pages and pages there were, all of her tidy writing, on various types of stationery. Vivid pink note cards, greeting cards, several sheets of paper with elephants fluttering about on butterfly wings and the Bible verse, 'If any man be in Christ, he is a new creature.' Steve smiled at that; it was pure Liv, whimsical, funny, yet with a serious message. There were some cream colored sheets with a picture of peanut-shaped people in what appeared to be a set of bleachers and the caption, 'Comments from the peanut gallery,' lots of floral patterns, and an elephant in a bathtub with a rubber ducky. Liv was certainly a woman of eclectic tastes.  
  
Steve turned back to the first letter. It was dated July of 2003, nearly thirty years ago. Curious, he picked up the other volume and checked the last letter, February 18, 2033. So, this was his dad's plan to pull him out of his foul mood. He was to catch up on the last thirty years he'd missed of Olivia's life. Suddenly, Steve began to feel.he wasn't sure what.embarrassed? Ashamed? He was invading someone's privacy. This was something akin to reading another person's journal. Liv seemed to have set down the past thirty years of her life in letters to his dad. Letters he'd never seen. Surely, she had not expected him to ever read them, or had she?  
  
His dad had said he had permission to share the contents of the notebooks, so maybe Liv did expect him to read the letters. She might not have planned it this way, but Steve knew his dad wouldn't give him all these letters without checking with Liv first. He thought a moment. What of Maribeth? Did she know? Steve decided she did, and approved. After all, his dad had said, 'all interested parties,' and the only ones who could be interested were Liv and Maribeth, maybe Keith, but he didn't seem to be either the sentimental or the jealous type.  
  
Putting the more recent of the two notebooks back on the floor, he took a deep breath and opened the older one to the first letter.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark,  
  
It has been almost a year and a half since I last saw you, and I am missing you and all my friends in California. It is strange that I am home at last, and still feeling homesick. I hope you don't mind my writing and asking for news, but I miss you all so much.  
  
Well, I am sending this to you at the hospital because I have no idea what has become of Steve, how he's doing, or how he feels about me, and I have no wish to upset him or cause him further pain. I hope you can forgive me for hurting him as I did, but to marry him when I knew Keith was there would only have hurt him worse in the end. I trust you will fill me in and keep me informed, but until you tell me otherwise, I will just keep writing you care of CG.  
  
Since I am asking you for news, I suppose I should share mine first. I guess the biggest, and best, bit of news I could share is that Keith and I have a daughter. ***  
  
  
  
Steve felt something twist in his chest, his stomach washed acid, and his breath came fast. This might be the answer to that terrible question he could not ask. Without giving it any thought, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. Looking at his wrist, he saw that all the diodes on the glove were fully red, and he knew there was only one hope of changing them back to green. Swallowing hard against the nausea that could have been nerves or his medication, he looked back to the letter.  
  
  
  
*** Her name is Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens. My in-laws say it's pretentious, but Keith and I wanted to honor the people who brought us together and still give her a name she could use without bringing up all the bad things tied to the past.  
  
She is a precious and precocious thing, and will be a year old in September. Keith jokes that it is a good thing she looks just like her mother, else she would be bald still. She has my curly red hair and my two- tone eyes, but no freckles yet, though I imagine they will come when she starts going out in the sun, and she is HUGE! She is as big now as her dad was at a year and I was at two. ***  
  
  
  
Steve grinned. Emily had to be six feet tall. Then he frowned. There was no specific mention of her birth date. Surely, there had been some questions when the child was born just seven months after the wedding. He continued reading.  
  
  
  
  
  
*** She is as hale and hearty a child as you would ever want to see, and, Mark, she is smart as a whip. She is already speaking, not just baby talk, but real words. She asks to 'play computer' and 'see gramma', and every afternoon when Keith pulls up, she shrieks, 'daddy home,' and starts to giggle.  
  
Well, that is my news for now. I hope to hear from you soon. If I don't, I will take it to mean you would prefer I quit writing you.  
  
Please do write back.  
  
Love, Liv ***  
  
  
  
Steve alternately smiled and frowned again. His dad had obviously written back, often, and he was glad of that, but he was puzzled that there had been no mention of Emily's September birth date. He couldn't believe no one had noticed that she was just too early to have been Keith's baby.  
  
He turned the page to a pale pink sheet edged with a lacy embossed pattern. Perhaps the next letter would answer his questions. It was dated August of 2003, just a few days before he married Maribeth.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark,  
  
Oh, I was so very glad to hear from you! I was beginning to worry that you had written me out of your life for good, but I do understand how the wedding plans delayed your reply, so there was no need for you to apologize. I also understand why you want me to continue writing to you at the hospital. I have found married life to be alternately a joy and a trial, and I wouldn't want our correspondence to make it more difficult for either of the newly weds.  
  
I am delighted for Steve and Maribeth. She is getting a wonderful, honorable, compassionate man, and having met Dr. Inscoe at a few conferences, I can tell you, though I am sure you have noticed, that Steve is getting an intelligent, strong-willed woman fully capable of keeping him in check when needed. You will have a strong ally in her; you can count on it.  
  
Be on the lookout for a package from me. Inside you will find a wrapped wedding gift and an unsigned card. It is a pair of heavy silver candlesticks Keith and I found in a rather large antiques shop along US15 near the Virginia-Maryland border while we were on our summer vacation-- Gettysburg; Washington, D.C.; and the hills of Northern Virginia. The building looks like a castle, and we stopped just because it seemed so interesting.  
  
The trip was wonderful, and Emmy took her first steps on the wall round the reflecting pool in front of the Washington Monument. Then, being stubborn and independent like her father, rather than walking from me to him as she was supposed to, she headed toward the water and landed with a plop in the reflecting pool. Keith hauled her out squalling and with a sodden diaper, and a nearby officer gave us a ticket citing us with something or other, I have no idea what.  
  
We took her to the Museum of Natural History, one of my favorite places in all the world, outside of home. It was just down the mall, and Keith rested on the bench beneath the charging elephant while I took Emmy into the ladies room to wash her and dry her and change her into some clean clothes from the diaper bag. (There is no telling what lives in that reflecting pool. Years ago, I saw a vagrant whizzing into it, and on a later visit, witnessed a frat boy losing his lunch there after a long binge.) Half an hour after her splash about, Emmy was giggling and babbling and toddling ahead of us, determined to throw herself beneath the hooves of the 'hursees' on the Carousel.  
  
Well, just call me 'Babylon,' for lately that's all I seem to do about my child and my trip.  
  
Take care, Liv ***  
  
  
  
Steve was surprised to find that Liv and Maribeth had met before and neither of them had mentioned it to him, but he shrugged it off. As long as they were getting along now, that was good enough for him. He remembered the candlesticks. They had quickly become one of Maribeth's favorite decorations and graced the table at every special family meal ever since. She had gone to great lengths to discover who had sent them, and when no giver owned up, she had asked every guest at the wedding to thank the person for her if they knew who it was. Steve smiled, too at the story of Emily going for a dip in the reflecting pool and wondered if Liv ever looked back on it as an early sign of the trials her daughter was about to put her through.  
  
Steve read quickly through the next several letters, then. They were full of news and stories of Emily's growing up, Keith, Kenney, and Beechie's exploits in the woods during buck season, and the beginnings of a romance between Kenney and Sue Redmond. One letter mentioned Liv's regret that Maribeth had found his box of souvenirs from his time with her, and typically, she had been, "So sorry that I am causing him further pain after all this time." The pages flowed with Liv's characteristic tone of wonder and amusement at life in general, and he could hear her voice in his head as she told him all her stories. Then he came across a letter that seemed to have seen a lot of abuse. The edges were worn, the pages, splattered with tears. The folds had become soft and translucent, leading Steve to believe that his father had read it many times over the years before he finally put it in the binder. It was dated June 2004.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark,  
  
A grandson! I know you are thrilled and he will be spoiled, and I'll bet Steve is just beside himself with pride and joy. That is wonderful news. And with a name like Steven Mark Sloan to grow into, I am sure he will be a remarkable man. With the help of his family and friends, he cannot fail to distinguish himself.  
  
Watch for a baby gift from Keith and me, a fat silver piggybank Keith picked out at a local silversmith's shop. It seems our 'rustic community' has become a haven for all sorts of artists and artisans--as well as a few long-haired, pot-smoking, acid-dropping, time-warped hippie wannabes, but that is another matter altogether. The few coins in the bank--a liberty dime, a wheat penny, a bicentennial quarter, and a shiny new penny--are just for luck. Superstition says it is bad luck to give a gift of an empty wallet, and I suppose that holds true for an empty bank as well.  
  
Again, congratulations. I am so pleased for you all.  
  
As for me, well, I will tell you about that later. Emmy on the other hand is proving herself a truly remarkable child. At just twenty-one months, she is speaking fluently in full sentences and reading first and second grade books. Keith now jokes that she may have gotten her looks from me, but her brains must come from his side of the family. When friends point out that he's no smarter than I am, he agrees, but says her intelligence must be from him, because she's far too pretty to have taken any of his looks.  
  
We are blessed with an uncommonly beautiful and intelligent daughter, but sometimes, I worry. Already, I think she spends too much time playing on her own. At the day care, she is among children a year or more older than her. She is so big, they notice no difference in size, but she seems to lack patience for their company. While other children tinker with the blocks for a while then are off doing something else, she spends hours in concentrated activity creating elaborate set ups. If another child has something she needs, she is not at all shy about simply taking it from him. It is not so much that she is ill mannered, either, though she is that, but she is so focused on her 'projects' that the people around her tend to fade into the background.  
  
I was for a while concerned that she might be autistic, but extensive tests have ruled out all the likely disorders. In fact, Keith and I have been told repeatedly that she is exceptionally gifted and that we should encourage her to develop her talents. Frankly, right now I would prefer to develop her manners and her personal skills more than her mind. She has few friends, and those children who do play with her often seem uneasy around her.  
  
Any advice you have would be most appreciated.  
  
Now, Mark, I don't wish to spoil your joy, so would you please put this letter away for a couple days. What I have to say next is not good news. ***  
  
  
  
Steve felt his chest tighten. He was glad she was so happy for him and Maribeth, and he remembered the piggy bank. Steven had treasured it, and it was now stuck away in storage somewhere, probably with the coins still inside. He and Maribeth had wondered when they received it if it had been from the same person who had given them the candlesticks. He found himself sharing Liv's concern for her daughter, as well, and he had no idea what the rest of the letter might contain, but he was sure his father had done just as he was about to, and forged ahead despite Liv's warning.  
  
  
  
*** I do hope you have done as I asked, and waited to read this part of the letter, Mark, for what I am about to unload on you will surely spoil your mood. I am sorry to share this with you, but your shoulders are broad, and you are a good, dear friend. I need to share my fears with someone, and I find I cannot speak to my husband or friends without bursting into tears. ***  
  
  
  
Wondering what Olivia had been afraid of, Steve turned to the next page of the letter, and found it was even more tearstained others had been. As he read it, he found his own tears joining Liv's and, probably, his father's as well. For the moment, he didn't even care that all the diodes on the glove were in the red again.  
  
  
  
*** Three months ago, Kenney finally moved out of his parents' house. Keith and I helped him, and about that time, my back started hurting. Naturally, I blamed it on muscle strain and believed it would go away in a few days. It did not.  
  
Gradually, the pain got worse, sometimes nauseatingly so, and grew to include my lower left abdomen. I stubbornly refused treatment, claiming it was just a torn muscle or a pinched nerve and nothing more than time, rest, and some painkillers were needed to help me recover.  
  
'Physician, heal thyself,' the saying goes. Would that I could.  
  
The pain grew worse, and my legs went numb, first pins and needles, then nothing. I began to limp and to hunch over like an old dowager. Then, about a week ago, I awoke to a wet bed, soiled sheets, a screaming baby, and a howling pain in my back. I was paralyzed from the waist down and had lost control of my functions. ***  
  
  
  
Steve noticed that the beautiful handwriting had become wobbly, and he knew it had cost Liv dearly to set her troubles down on paper.  
  
  
  
*** I was able to roll over and reach the phone to dial 911, but it hurt too much to roll back. The pain took the air from my lungs, and I couldn't even 'describe the emergency' to the operator. I just managed to say 'ambulance, Keith at work' before I fainted.  
  
I awoke to the humiliation of having two old friends from school discover first hand that I slept in the nude.  
  
An MRI revealed that I had a tumor, roughly the size and shape of a Nerf football growing between my spine and my left kidney. It had grown slowly, making room for itself as it went. Emergency surgery to remove the tumor quickly became a left oophorectomy, supracervical hysterectomy, left nephrectomy, and a bowel resection as the beast inside me had crushed my left ovary, and the left side of my uterus, accounting for the abdominal pain, and slowly pinched off the blood supply to my left kidney and a portion of my colon.  
  
A biopsy and subsequent tests have shown that the tumor was cancerous and has metastasized to my liver, lungs, and bowels already. I am not expected to live another year.  
  
I am so sorry to dump this on you, Mark, but I am so deeply afraid, more frightened than I have ever been in my life, and no one here can be strong for me right now. Every time I begin to voice my fears, they begin to cry, but if I can get this all down and send it off to you, I will not see you cry for me. I can remember your strength and draw on it, and maybe it will help me.  
  
I will fight this, Mark, with all that I have and all that I am. I have already started an aggressive experimental chemotherapy protocol which left me so violently ill, my husband the cop went off in search of some long- haired, pot-smoking, acid-dropping, time-warped hippie wannabes to sell him some marijuana to help ease the nausea. It did only a little good, and made me speak and act so strangely I flatly refused to ever try it again, but I will continue the treatment, Mark, and I promise you I will be writing you again this time next summer to tell you to look for another package for that grandson of yours.  
  
Now, I have one more absolutely unfair request to make of you. Please don't tell anyone about this. I do not intend to leave this world any time soon, but if I do succumb, I want Steve, Jesse, Amanda, and the rest of my California friends to believe the end was sudden and painless. It might be a shock for them, but it's better than knowing I was suffering and they couldn't be there for me.  
  
I love you Mark, and I am trusting you to keep my confidence. You will be my rock when my husband can't be. I know this is terribly unfair to you, but I don't know where else to turn. Just as my life was truly happy for once, the world fell out from under me again, and if I cannot find one person who will hear my troubles and listen to my fears without burdening me with his sympathetic tears, I shall go mad and give it all up for lost.  
  
Please keep my secrets.  
  
All my love, Liv ***  
  
  
  
Steve had mixed emotions about the letter. He was proud of Liv for her fighting spirit, mad as hell that she would unload such news on his dad and then ask him to keep it a secret, and resentful that she had never mentioned it to him. He also found himself wondering if she and Keith had agreed to overlook the question of Emily's paternity because Liv could never have another child.  
  
Steve kept turning pages. Each of the letters was full of news and stories, and most contained only a brief mention of Liv's condition. Sometimes the handwriting was clear and confident, other times it was wobbly, but no matter how shaky the script, the stories were always wonderful, sometimes sentimental, sometimes full of dry wit, and occasionally outrageous.  
  
Then there was a very long letter dated March, 2005, written in a different hand, an old-fashioned, schoolteacher's cursive. Steve wondered how his father had felt when he'd seen it. Did he at first think Liv had died? It must have been a heart wrenching moment. It troubled Steve, and he knew Liv was fine now.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark,  
  
This letter comes to you courtesy of Edna, a compassionate and trustworthy volunteer at the hospital, the mother of a friend, widowed just over a year now, who is looking forward to seeing 'that distinguished white-haired doctor friend' of mine again. Edna is blushing furiously now, Mark, but she has yet to refuse to set down what I dictate.  
  
I may not be able to write to you myself, but it is not so bad, my friend, as I am not yet too ill for mischief. Perhaps I shall push my luck a bit further and see if I can make Edna confess just a little more.  
  
She pretends she can never recall your name, but I know better. She was devastated to learn that you lived in LA, and after the quake was frantically pestering me for news of you and yours. Thank you for calling so soon after to let me know you were all ok. I don't think Edna could have stood another moment of waiting and wondering any more than I could.  
  
I have just made Edna show me what she has written, Mark, and every word I dictated is here. I think she indulges me because she believes I am dying. Either that, or she is hoping it will be a convenient excuse to express her admiration for you. Won't she be chagrinned when I walk out of here whole and well and looking forward to a good many more years of teasing her about her girlish crushes! ***  
  
  
  
Steve paused for thought. For some reason he seemed to remember a busy couple of years shortly after Steven was born when his father had a conference to go to every other month. Mark had always led an active life, but for a time there, it had seemed especially hectic, and sometimes the strain showed. Steve remembered worrying about his dad before the quake and for a while after, and now he knew why.  
  
He also remembered Mark coming home from one particular 'conference' energized and seeming so pleased with himself he practically floated several inches above the ground. Perhaps he had established more than a passing acquaintance with Edna.  
  
Steve decided he would have to ask about that.  
  
  
  
*** So, Steve is a captain. Good for him; it was a long time in coming. He has all my sympathies, as I cannot begin to imagine the decisions he must have faced and the strain he would have been under in the circumstances you described to me the first few days after the earthquake. For once, I would not trade my troubles for another's. I can decide well enough what to do for myself, but to know my decision might mean life or death for another? Well, that's why I am an orthopedist, so I do not have to make such decisions. I have been praying for him and for all of you.  
  
I have authorized Meyer to divert all the funds he can financially justify to an account that will be called the LA Promise Foundation. There is also a special, personal loan set aside for Jesse. Please, MAKE him apply for the assistance. The money is there for him already, and the foundation is just a cover so he won't feel personally obligated to me. It is my pleasure to help. I know what it means to lose a home, and it breaks my heart to know he has suffered the same misfortune, made all the more terrible because he had just acquired it. I personally can't do much to help any of you, but I can offer up my prayers and my cash and I will do so gladly. ***  
  
  
  
Steve had to stop and wipe his eyes. Liv had been too weak to write her own letters, and yet she had been thinking of them, praying for them, and in Jesse's case, providing for them. He had always considered her an amazing woman, but now he realized no one word, nor any collection of them, could begin to say what she was. She was something wonderful that had no name.  
  
Suddenly, he felt sheepish, romanticizing his old flame in the very bed he had shared with his wife of thirty years. Liv was not some mythical creature. She was a brave, strong, kind, compassionate, generous, caring, selfless woman who should perhaps be made a saint some day, but she was still just a woman. He would always care deeply for her and always admire her, but she simply could not ever come close to filling the space Maribeth had carved out for herself in his life.  
  
Steve turned the page, and noticed that it started with "Dear Dr. Sloan." Unless the illness had affected her mind, this couldn't be Liv's letter. Except for when they first met and one brief period of time when she and Mark were not on good terms, she had always called his dad by name. He turned back to the previous page, and found that the handwriting matched Edna's. He continued reading.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Dr. Sloan:  
  
Olivia has nodded off. When she wakes up, I will remind her to tell you all about Emily. Until then, I will tell you all the things Olivia doesn't want you to know. If she ever finds out I did this, she'll be so mad at me she might even refuse to let me write for her again. I can live with that, because she needs her friends now. I can tell you care for her, and I think you have a right to know how she is really doing.  
  
Olivia is dying. I'm sorry there is no easier way to say this. If I had Livvie's way with words, I could make it sound like an adventure or something, but it's not. The fact is, she is dying slowly and painfully, and that's all I can say about it.  
  
She has not been able to keep anything down for over a week. Even water comes back up on her, and what little does stay down runs right through. She has ulcers in her mouth and throat from the vomit and sores on her bottom from the diarrhea. Over the past few days, she has refused to eat because of the pain. Dr. Griffin, has put her on IV nutrition, but it is hard on her system. Her organs are breaking down now because of it, and her eyes are sunken from dehydration.  
  
One of the hippies from the 'Tranquility' (their commune) claims to be a real doctor. Dr. Moon Love, if you can believe it. All of her papers check out, but I think she's a quack. The first thing she tried to do was get Olivia to quit the chemo. 'Western medicine is corrupt,' says Dr. Love, and 'Harsh, artificial chemicals can not heal such a wonderful natural marvel as the human body.'  
  
Bullshit.  
  
It's a good thing Livvie still has some of the sense God gave her. She refused to quit the chemo because pulling out of the study would.oh, I don't remember what she said, but there wouldn't be enough people left for the results to count. Still, Keith and Olivia are paying good money for Dr. Love to come three days a week to poke Livvie with needles, hook her up to a monitor, and tell her to, 'Visualize the tumors shrinking. Imagine them withering away as the blood supply is cut off. Focus. Focus.'  
  
Focus, my eye!  
  
I've been volunteering in the cancer ward for twenty years, since my own daughter died of leukemia. Dr. Love is a fraud hoping to turn a quick buck on the suffering of a desperate, dying young woman.  
  
I know your life is busy, Dr. Sloan, and I know there is still a lot to do to clean up and treat the injured after the earthquake, but if you ever want to see Olivia alive again, you should come visit her soon. She doesn't have much time left.  
  
Livvie is waking up now; I have to go back to her letter.  
  
Edna ***  
  
  
  
Steve chewed his lip thoughtfully. Edna was certainly blunt, and she was right that she didn't have 'Olivia's way with words,' but, thank God, she was also wrong about Olivia. He remembered the conference that had suddenly 'popped up' about three weeks after the earthquake, too. His dad had taken off, leaving him orders to look after Amanda and the boys and to make sure Jesse applied for assistance from the LA Promise Foundation.  
  
At the time, Steve had been furious that his dad would abandon them all at such a difficult time. He had argued that since Jesse had lost everything, he should have been the one to go off on a semi-vacation at hospital expense, if only to get away from the stress of being forced to depend on friends for food and shelter. So angry had he been at his dad's seemingly callous behavior that for days after Mark's return, he had avoided him whenever he could and had been cold and curt when he couldn't. Now that he had the facts, and knew his dad had been making the difficult choice to leave his family in crisis to sit beside what might be a friend's deathbed, he felt differently and knew he would apologize.  
  
Steve turned to the next page of the letter. It was a very long one, and he wondered if Liv, sensing she was near death, hadn't rambled on, trying to get all her thoughts out before she was too weak to do so.  
  
  
  
*** Goodness, Mark. I seem to have dozed off. Edna, being the good soul she is has sat here waiting patiently for me to rouse and continue with my letter. I hope she kept you entertained in the meanwhile. She has reminded me that I was just talking about Emmy, and I will return to that shortly, but I must discuss something else with you first. It has been weighing on my mind for several days now, and I need an objective opinion on it, so, let me tell you the story first, then I will ask my questions.  
  
The other day, a priest came to visit me. He is the hospital chaplain and I suppose he was hoping to offer me comfort or counsel, should I need it. Well, I was feeling sorry for myself at the time. I find that tends to happen when you have just spent the last two hours puking your guts out.  
  
Anyway, I asked him the most pathetic lament of all. "Whyyy meeee?" I am sure if you concentrate, you can even hear the whine.  
  
He should not have tried to answer, for he caught my full wrath, which even in my weakened state is considerable. I am not proud of this. I just wanted you to know, because it has some bearing on what happened next.  
  
In answer to my question, the priest said, "It's hard to say. Perhaps there is some lesson you need to learn. Maybe the Lord is testing you."  
  
He would have said more, but I interrupted him.  
  
Bursting into tears I shrieked, "What lesson could a good and loving God possibly want to teach that would require this much pain, suffering, and fear. Even the prison system is not so cruel to those who fail to learn virtue."  
  
"I also said he may be."  
  
"Testing me," I wailed. "Yes, I heard that. The Lord did not test Job. He left that to the Devil, and even Satan was not allowed to kill him. Satan also tested Christ in the wilderness. The God I have loved and worshipped all my life does not cruelly test and try His children. How dare you say He is doing this to me?"  
  
Mark, I was screaming and ranting so, the doctors threatened to sedate me. I finished by telling the priest that I had neither the piety of Christ nor the patience of Job and I certainly had no patience for any more of his ill- considered folly. I then threw my water pitcher at him and thanked him to leave me alone. My anger and my energy spent, I collapse back into the pillows and slept away the rest of the day, even nodding off during Emily's visit.  
  
I do not want you to try to answer 'Why me?' for I know no answer will satisfy me. The best I can come up with on my own is, 'Because.' I do want to know this: Is the behavior I described normal for one who is critically ill?  
  
All my life I have tried to be patient and pleasant, gentle and forgiving. I have never wished to harm anyone or to hurt anyone's feelings. I know that I hurt Steve when I married Keith, and if I could have done so without causing him pain, I would have. All I can say in my defense is he is probably happier now than he ever could have been with me, and both our lives have been the better for it. I have almost never been mean-spirited or quick to anger, and my happiest times have always come from helping someone or bringing people joy.  
  
I once told you I live as if every moment were my last, and I want to spend my last moment doing something good for someone else, but lately, I seem to care very little for how other people feel. I am often sharp tongued and snappish, and I couldn't give a hairy rat's behind if I offended or frightened or angered or upset that priest. Nor do I intend to apologize to him.  
  
One would think at this point, when my health is so precarious and one sudden fever or a night spent sleeping in a draft could mean the end of me, that I would be even more concerned about how I treat others. The thought of leaving the world with bad feelings still between me and another person used to terrify me, Mark, but now, maybe I have become selfish, but I really don't care.  
  
Edna tells me all this is normal and quite forgivable from someone in my position, but I can't trust her to tell me the truth. It is not that I think her deceitful and dishonest, but I think that, just as she wrote every word I dictated, no matter how much embarrassment it caused her, she will tell me what will make me feel better because she thinks I am dying.  
  
So, Mark, if you could, please tell me, am I normal, or do I need psychiatric help--again?  
  
Sigh! Now that that is off my chest--which by the way was the first thing to go when I started to lose weight from the chemo--let me tell you about Emmy!  
  
She will be three in September, and she will be starting five-year-old kindergarten. It took a lot of fighting, but I convinced Keith, Jud, and May to pursue it, because she is just too bored at daycare. She has gone from being indifferent or impatient with the other two- and three-year- olds, to being overbearing and condescending, and it is quite unattractive in a toddler. I think she should be placed with older children to force her to develop her social skills. Five-year-olds can stand up to her in a way toddlers cannot. I can hear their taunts now when she tries to show off, and though it breaks my heart to imagine it, I think it will do her some good to learn first hand that nobody likes a smart aleck. The older children are bigger than her as well, and she will have to learn to get along with them to get what she wants. She won't be able to just take it any more.  
  
Her language, math, and musical skills would place her in the fifth or sixth grade easily, which is more than a little frightening to Keith and me. Because of my education, I am used to coming across as one of the smartest people in the room, and Keith is no dunce either, but at the rate she is learning, Emmy will outstrip us both before she becomes a teenager. She is learning at the rate of three mental years for every chronological year. It seems foolish to want your child to be a little less intelligent, and cruel to want the other children to put her in her place, but what will Keith and I do ten years from now when we have an obnoxious adolescent who is right in her assumption that she knows more than us?  
  
Steve is such a wonderful man, Mark. He is kind and compassionate, patient, caring, and thoughtful, chivalrous and well mannered and sociable. I am sure some of that is just his personality, but you and your wife had to teach him something. What did you do? As always, any advice is welcome.  
  
Well, my friend, even my voice is failing me now and Edna has to lean in close to hear my words. I am a little concerned she may lean over so far she will fall out of her seat and right into the bed beside me, and so, I shall bring this letter to a close. Take care of yourself and your family. I will see you when you visit again.  
  
Love, Liv ***  
  
  
  
Steve found himself laughing through tears. Even in what must have been her darkest hours, Olivia was able to discuss her situation with gentle humor. Suddenly, he remembered how thirty years ago, she could lighten a heavy mood so quickly it boggled the mind. When he was frustrated or frightened, often with nothing more than a word or a look, she could have him smiling again. He was so glad she had been able to do that for herself, too, for he had never in his life met anyone else with that remarkable talent.  
  
He could not begin to fathom the anguish she must have felt knowing that one bad night and she could end up leaving her husband and daughter behind, and he wondered if she appreciated the painful irony of worrying about Emily's obnoxious adolescent difficulties when the child was only three and Liv herself was on the edge of death. It must have been unspeakably painful to worry about a future she probably didn't expect to be a part of!  
  
Steve idly wondered if Keith would have contacted him about Emily if Liv had died. Certainly, he would have needed help dealing with such a precocious child, and though Steve didn't imagine himself smart enough to do any better with her than Keith had, he knew his father's connections would be helpful in finding facilities and specialists capable of dealing with a young genius. It was true that Keith would have had the help and support of Jud and May, plus all the financial resources he could need, but Steve wasn't sure if they had access to the sort of experts Mark knew, and he had a hunch finding the right people had been critical in educating Emily. Also, Steve was sure his father would have let Keith know that he and Emmy would always be welcome in LA, and he knew there would have to be more opportunities to challenge the brilliant child here than in a small town in Pennsylvania. Of course, a couple hours to the west of Punxsutawney, Pittsburgh was quite a metropolitan city, with it's own outstanding university and medical facilities, and Penn State, one of the largest universities in the nation, as Steve recalled from his visit there with Liv thirty years ago, was just a couple hours to the east.  
  
Steve shook his head. It was aching from considering the 'what if's'. Though he was convinced that Emmy was his child, he still didn't have any proof, and so, he didn't have any right to assume he would have had a part in Emmy's upbringing. He guessed he was doing Keith a disservice, too, for he had raised the child alone while Liv had been ill, and while Liv did seem to have concerns, she didn't seem to think Keith had botched the job. Maybe it was just as well he had known nothing about the situation, Steve thought. The last thing Liv and Keith would have needed at the time was his meddling.  
  
Steve kept turning pages. Some of the letters were long, some short, and one was nothing more than a simple note card. "I am still here," it read, in a wobbly hand, "Thank you for your visit. Sorry I slept so much. Love, Liv."  
  
Those three scrabbly lines were more heartrending and more eloquent than anything Steve could ever remember reading, and suddenly, he had to shut the notebook and get out of his room. He went to his dresser and dug out a black LAPD sweatshirt, matching sweatpants, socks, and boxers. Realizing he needed a shower and a shave, he took the clothes with him into the attached bathroom, and ten minutes later, he was out of the bathroom, dressed, and sitting on the bed, lacing up his running shoes.  
  
Steve paused to take a deep breath before he left the bedroom, and realized he felt good for the first time in weeks. Then he noticed the glove on his hand as it rested on the doorknob. All the lights were green. He smiled and thought it was a good thing the device was waterproof, for he had completely forgotten about it in the shower.  
  
As he stepped out into the hall, he immediately noticed a heavenly smell. He followed his nose to the kitchen to find his dad seated on a stool by the stove stirring a big pot of marinara sauce. He saw a pan of meatballs keeping warm on the back burner, and a pot of green beans was simmering beside him. Liv was preparing mozzarella garlic bread to go into the oven.  
  
Steve sidled up to his dad and, reaching around him, stole one of the meatballs from the top of the pile in the pan. Mark smacked the back of his hand with the spoon he'd been using to stir the sauce, and left a red spatter.  
  
"Wait until dinner!" Mark snapped.  
  
Steve looked at his dad askance, shrugged, and cleaned some of the sauce from his hand with the meatball. Then he popped it in his mouth.  
  
"Mmmmm, delicious."  
  
He grinned wickedly, and Mark shook the spoon at him.  
  
"Here, Dad," he said, reaching for the spoon. "Let me rinse that off for you. Now that you've assaulted me with it, you don't want it going right back into the pot."  
  
"Assault, nothing," Mark grumbled as he handed over the spoon, "I was acting in defense of my meatballs. So, how are you feeling?"  
  
Sighing deeply as he rinsed the spoon, he didn't even look at his dad or Liv. "Better," he said, "at least for now." Handing the spoon back to his dad, he looked once again at the feast Mark and Liv were preparing and said, "That really was delicious. Uh, will I.be able to have more?"  
  
Mark and Liv shared a knowing glance. As long as Steve had his appetite back, all was right with the world.  
  
"Well." Liv hesitated, she knew she was being almost cruel, but Steve had always been fun to tease, and besides, he needed to take care what and how much he ate, and her seeming uncertainty would drive that point home. It would force him to be judicious and moderate in his portions just to avoid an 'I told you so.'  
  
".the marinara sauce is acidic, and excess acid is part of the reason your ulcers got so bad, and the meatballs and the cheese on the garlic bread are kind of hard to digest."  
  
She saw Steve's face fall. He was expecting to be told no, and that's exactly where she wanted him, thinking that she was indulging him against her better judgment.  
  
"I suppose, if you don't over do, just a couple of meatballs and only a slice of garlic bread with your spaghetti, and drink lots of water, it should be all right."  
  
Steve brightened instantly. "Great! Is there anything I can do to help?"  
  
"Yes," Mark told him. "We need a salad. A big one. Everything you'll need is in the fridge. Jesse, Katie Lynn, Lauren, Amanda, and Ron are all coming over, and Maribeth, Steven, and Keith will be home for dinner tonight."  
  
Steve found himself counting on his fingers. Three and three and two and three was."Salad for eleven, right. Where's the big bowl?"  
  
Mark sighed and pointed to a cupboard. "It's right where it's always been for the last twenty five years."  
  
The three of them worked in companionable silence for a while, then Liv started humming softly. Steve listened for a bit before he spoke.  
  
"You know, Liv, I seem to remember you having a beautiful voice," he said, "Why don't you sing us a song?"  
  
"Oh, I don't know."  
  
"Come on, honey," Mark interrupted, "it'll be fun."  
  
Spreading garlic butter on a split-open loaf of Italian bread, Liv gave Mark a measuring glance and said, "Duet?"  
  
Mark shrugged, "We could try it, though I'm not sure I'm all that familiar with the music of the younger generation."  
  
"Ha-ha," Liv sounded less than amused, "Do you know any show tunes?"  
  
"Oh, a few," he conceded modestly as he spooned up some of the spaghetti sauce to check it's consistency then went back to stirring slowly.  
  
Steve laughed as Liv muttered, "You've probably already forgotten more than I'll ever know."  
  
"Yes," Mark admitted, "unfortunately the memory tends to fade as one ages. You'll find that out some day yourself."  
  
"Oh, please, Mark, you haven't aged, just mellowed," Liv said, rolling her eyes skyward as if praying silently for patience as she started sprinkling cheese over the bread.  
  
Though Steve was enjoying the banter between Liv and his father, the longer he waited, the more he wanted to hear her sing once again.  
  
"Oh, will you two just get on with it?"  
  
"Oh, why don't you just 'get on with' that salad," his father suggested.  
  
They both grinned at him, and Liv asked Mark, "Are you familiar with 'Big River'?"  
  
Mark screwed up his face in thought, then nodded and began spouting information. "Music and lyrics by country songwriter Roger Miller, book by William Hauptman, base on 'The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn' by Mark Twain."  
  
Liv continued when Mark paused for breath. "That's the one. It opened at the Eugene O'Neill Theatre in April of 1985, and won seven Tony Awards. Good. You remember the scene where the slaves and the overseer are singing, I think to cover the escape of some others during a funeral?"  
  
"Yeah. 'Crossing Over,' right?"  
  
Liv nodded. "That's it. Think you can do it?"  
  
Mark grinned broadly, and Steve smiled to see it. His dad loved a challenge. "Try me," Mark said.  
  
Liv nodded and took a deep breath, then belted out the first few bars of the tune, which was reminiscent of the old Negro Spirituals of the late 1800's.  
  
"Crossin' toooo the other siiide.OhhOhhhhOhhOhhhhhhh.OhhOhOhOhhhOhhhOhhhhhhhh."  
  
Looking to Mark and getting a nod, Liv went on, Mark providing a counterpoint to her melody, echoing her words, his voice coming in low and soft below hers, and rising to join her when she sang joyfully. The song had a compelling, driving rhythm to it, almost like a slow cadence, mimicking people in motion, and Steve found his hands, quite of their own volition, chopping vegetables to the pace it set.  
  
"We are pilgrims.on a journey..through the dark.ness of the night."  
  
Liv held the note on 'dark', and Mark stayed with her. Making eye contact they moved on and in this way, kept time with one another.  
  
"We are bound for.other places.crossin' to.the other side."  
  
To this point, the song had been low and mournful, trudging on at slow but inexorable pace, Olivia holding on to the notes as if loath to let them go from her lips, Mark repeating the lyrics, moaning and sighing softly to underscore the tune. Now, with no change in rhythm or pace, the song began to fly. The notes were brighter and higher in pitch, and Olivia sang louder, her tone soaring from sorrowful to gloriously hopeful in just a few words.  
  
"I will worry.about tomorrow.when tomorrow.comes in sight."  
  
Suddenly, everything collapsed again to the original groaning melody, this time, though, still tinged with rosy hope.  
  
".but until then, Lord.I'm just a stranger.crossing to.the other side."  
  
Suddenly, Liv's voice took flight again, rising heavenward as the music took it away, supported all the while by Mark's fine baritone.  
  
"Jesus will.be there to meet me.he will reach.his hand in mine."  
  
And the original tune was back just as quickly, this time marching eagerly onward instead of slogging through muck and mire.  
  
".and I will no more.be a stranger.when I reach.the other side."  
  
Then, as if realizing there was quite a bit of life left to go before that happy day, the song settled back down to the original words. This time, there was a lot of silence around the phrases, giving the song a thoughtful quality. Mark and Liv sang in unison, she crooning softly at the low end of her vocal range, he stretching to meet her at the high end of his.  
  
"Crossin' to.the other side. OhhhhOhhhOhhhOhhhhhhh. OhhOhOhOhhhhOhhhhOhhhh."  
  
In the quiet moment that followed the song, Liv suddenly laughed and said, "Now, that's what I'm talking about. Mark, you and I ought to go on the road together."  
  
"Sweetie, that was nice," Mark agreed, "but I'm afraid I'm a bit too old for a traveling concert series."  
  
Steve, who had been letting the music just wash over him, was suddenly struck by the significance of the words. He knew Liv well enough to realize music held a special meaning for her and he wondered if she had felt comforted by the song when she was ill. Feeling himself choke up, he squeezed out the words, 'excuse me,' and bolted for the deck.  
  
Surprised that a simple song could touch big, tough Steve Sloan so deeply, Liv looked from the space Steve had left behind to Mark and back a couple of times, then said, "I guess he needs a minute. I'll go after him soon."  
  
Mark just nodded, knowing his son hadn't been affected by the music alone, but deciding to let Liv find that out for herself.  
  
Steve stood on the deck for a moment, breathing deeply of the salt air, trying to calm himself. He looked at the diodes on the glove, all of them glowing red, and concentrated. Slowly, they all dropped to amber.  
  
Idly wandering down the steps and across the yard, Steve found himself out on the beach throwing rocks into the ocean. Why, even when she was so sick, had Liv never contacted him? They'd only been together six months, but as close as they had been, he couldn't imagine why she had chosen to exclude him from her struggle. Surely, she hadn't thought he'd make trouble about Emily, had she?  
  
Olivia finished preparing the garlic bread and slipped it in the oven. Setting the timer, she looked at Mark and asked, "Will you be ok for a few minutes?"  
  
"Yeah, I'll be fine," he told her. "I'll take the garlic bread out for you when the timer goes off, too."  
  
She nodded. "Ok, then, I'm going to check on Steve."  
  
Steve had stopped throwing rocks into the ocean, feeling guilty for making them start their long journey shoreward over again. Ok, even if Liv was afraid he'd make a stink about Emmy, she must have wanted to see him. She'd almost married him, and he'd have married her in a heartbeat if she hadn't chosen Keith instead when he gave her the chance. Yet, even when she knew she was on the line between living and dying, she had not sent for him. Why? She had helped him through so much in the short time they had shared. He felt he deserved the opportunity to support her for a change, and he was feeling angry and hurt that she had denied him that chance.  
  
Suddenly, he felt a gentle hand on his arm and a soft voice said his name.  
  
"Steve?"  
  
He turned to face her, and all his thoughts save one came tumbling out at once.  
  
"You knew you were dying, didn't you? Were you afraid? Did you sing that song? Did it comfort you? Why didn't you send for me? Didn't you want me there?"  
  
He just couldn't ask he about Emily now.  
  
Liv chuckled at him, and said, "Oh, Steve, you've been reading my letters, haven't you?"  
  
He nodded, and swallowed hard, but didn't trust himself to speak.  
  
She had insisted to Mark and Maribeth that she didn't want to discuss the contents of the letters with anyone, but now, well, this was Steve, and he was hurting, and she could help. Taking a deep breath, she answered his questions one by one.  
  
"I knew there was a good chance I could die, Steve, but I refused to let myself believe it would ever really happen. I was afraid, sometimes, too, but not so much of where I would be going as of what would happen to those I would leave behind. I didn't sing that song, I'm afraid, because much of the time, I was too weak and tired to do much of anything, but I listened to it a lot, and it did help. There were times when I needed you there, Steve, because, well, just because. As for why I didn't send for you, do you remember what happened the February after you and Maribeth got married?"  
  
Steve thought a moment, then, "She found the box of your things."  
  
Liv nodded, "Your dad told me about that, not long after it happened. It was only a few months before I got sick, and well, I just didn't think it would be a good idea to drag you clear across the country to the bedside of your old flame when your wife was." she cringed at the word she was about to use, ".insecure.about her marriage."  
  
Steve turned from her, then, stricken, but she stepped round to have him face her again. She was surprised to see his eyes brimming with unshed tears.  
  
"Steve?"  
  
"Oh, God, Liv." He choked on his words, took a deep breath, and continued, "Don't you ever think of yourself?"  
  
She laughed at him again, the soft, gentle sound making him realize absurdity of his question. With anyone else in the world, he would be asking exactly the opposite. He smiled, and his tears overflowed. She put her hands up to either side of his face and wiped the droplets away with her thumbs.  
  
"Now," she said, "you already know what you've been reading has a happy ending, so, why don't you come back to the house and help us finish dinner?"  
  
Taking a deep breath, he dropped an arm around her shoulders and she slipped one around his waist. They walked up the beach together, laughing and joking, and by the time they had reached the house, they were both short of breath, red-faced, and glowing with good humor.  
  
"Hey, you two," Keith called to them cheerfully as they stumbled in from the deck. He looked up from where he had sat the spaghetti sauce, now full of meatballs, on the table for Mark, and his smile faded to confusion as he saw his wife in another man's arms. Then he grinned again as he reminded himself it was just Steve.  
  
Shortly after he and O had arrived, she and Steve had gone out onto the patio for a while. He had been jealous of the private moment they had shared and had quizzed her about it. She had answered all his questions quite innocently, telling how Steve had comforted her while she cried and assured her that they would get Emily back safely. Then, just as he was about blast her about how she should be turning to her husband when she needed consoling, she had smiled brilliantly and said, "It's like finally having a big brother again."  
  
Since then, he found he couldn't begrudge them the time they spent together. They were good for each other, and after all she had lost in her lifetime, O deserved any close, loving human connection she could forge. She had chosen him over Steve once before, and having heard her describe him as a 'big brother' Keith had no doubt she would do so again if she had it to do over.  
  
"What do you think you're doing, out playing on the beach while Mark and I slave in a hot kitchen to put on dinner?"  
  
Olivia snorted indignantly, and disentangling herself from Steve, she began to set out plates. "I'll have you know I made the meatballs and the garlic bread," she told him.  
  
"And I did the salad," Steve added as he carried it to the table.  
  
"Just what have *you* been doing all day, mister?" Olivia asked as she slipped behind her husband and wrapped her arms around his waist.  
  
There was a brief pause as Keith seemed to consider whether he really ought to answer the question, and finally he said, "I, uh, I've been working with Al, Ron, and Cheryl and the kids on security plans for the trial."  
  
From where he stood in the kitchen looking into the dining room, Steve could see Liv's shoulders stiffen. Then she dropped her head forward to rest on her husband's back. Keith must have sensed her sudden tension, because he turned then, and wrapped her in his arms.  
  
Unsure what to say next, Steve asked for clarification. "The kids?"  
  
He heard Olivia giggle and she stepped away from Keith, gave him a quick kiss, and moved into the kitchen. "Collectively, Charles Donovan, 'Fredo Cioffi, and Hannah, at least when they're not round to be offended by it."  
  
Steve grinned at that. He wasn't sure if he approved of the nickname, as it did seem a bit demeaning to the three young people. Even before he got sick, though, the young officers did seem to do quite a few things together, often in the company of his goddaughter Hannah, and 'the kids' would certainly be a quicker way of referring to the three of them than calling each of them by name. Then his grin turned to a frown as he suddenly realized that Olivia had not gone to the Brentwood house since the night of the sting and if she knew what the appellation meant, then it had been in use a good while without his knowledge.  
  
He hated feeling left out, and though it had only been a week since he'd been hospitalized, he felt he had missed so much. Donovan, young Cioffi, and Hannah were now, 'the kids.' Keith was working on the task force, planning security with Ron and Cheryl. No one, as far as he could tell, had any idea what had become of Emily and Moretti after the second sting. Suddenly, he remembered that one of the men Em had left trussed up for them had wanted a deal in exchange for information, and he'd never heard what came from that.  
  
Looking over his shoulder at Olivia, Steve moved closer to Keith and asked, "So, tell me what you've planned."  
  
"Steve," Olivia called out in warning.  
  
"Oh, come on, Liv," Steve cringed to hear himself whine, and, breathing deeply, tried to continue in a less desperate tone. "I just want to know how his day went, surely it couldn't hurt for him to tell me. And I promise," he added sincerely, "I won't mope and complain and bug you or anyone else to let me go back to work early if you'll just let him fill me in from time to time."  
  
He heard her sigh, and knew he had won her consent.  
  
"Ok," she said, "but if Maribeth comes in and catches you at it, I was in the kitchen making salad dressing the whole time."  
  
"Deal," Steve eagerly agreed with a grin, and taking a seat, he motioned Keith to join him.  
  
It was strange for Keith to sit and tell Steve about the various security plans they had made for the trial. It was like visiting with a prisoner who was desperate for news from the outside, or perhaps a child who'd been confined for days with the chickenpox. Every now and then, Steve would look furtively around as if he would be caught in the act of something he shouldn't be doing and would be sent back to his room.or his cell.  
  
Keith could see evidence of Steve's heightened awareness in the diodes on the glove, too, all of them glowing amber, but eventually he settled down. When Steve finally relaxed, he started asking relevant questions and making good points, and through their conversation, Keith was able to iron out some of the bugs in the plans he and the task force had made. Finally, Keith became aware of Steve Sloan as the keen, sharp-witted professional cop he had first met, and grudgingly gotten to know years ago and who just a week ago had nearly caught up with Emily, despite her astronomical IQ and talent for disguise.  
  
"You know," Steve said, "there's not a lot of cover along the Hollywood Freeway between Sunset Boulevard and the Ventura Freeway. I know it's the long way around, but you might want to consider taking them up the Golden State Freeway all the way to Burbank and then heading west on Burbank or Victory Boulevard."  
  
Keith nodded, "I'm not all that familiar with the roads you're naming, but I'll mention it tomorrow."  
  
"If you wanted to run the shell game on them and make them guess where Moretti and Emily are, you could run an empty motorcade and split it at the junction of the Hollywood and Pasadena Freeways, then divide each part again at Sunset Boulevard and the Golden State Freeway."  
  
As they talked, Keith noticed that one by one, the diodes on the glove all went back to green.  
  
Steve started to grin, "Then take Moretti out in a private car with an unmarked police escort. Go all the way out to Pasadena and come back on the Ventura Freeway, and bring Emily straight out the Santa Monica Freeway and home to you and Liv in Brentwood."  
  
Keith had to close his eyes to visualize his mental map. His hands went up in the air and started tracing the routes Steve had described. As the plan came into focus, his face split with a grin, and he said, "I like it. Do you have a map we could mark it out on so I can show it to Ron and Cheryl tomorrow?"  
  
"Yeah," Steve said, "let's go into the."  
  
Before Steve finished his sentence, Maribeth came home, announcing her arrival as she came through the door. "Hello-o-o! Oh, Dad, whatever you've made for dinner, it smells wonderful!"  
  
Before Keith's eyes, Steve changed from the Deputy Chief of Police planning a witness transfer to the nervous prisoner he had been when the two men had started talking. He lurched out of his chair and greeted his wife as she entered the dining room.  
  
"Well, hello, handsome," Maribeth said as she walked into Steve's hug and gave him an affectionate kiss. "How are you tonight?"  
  
Her voice grated on Keith's nerves. She sounded as if she were talking to a child.or a pet. To his dismay, Steve accepted the treatment and began to gabble at her, almost desperately.  
  
"Not too bad," he said with an anxious grin. "I slept until about four, then I read for a while, had a shower and shave. Then I helped with dinner and, uh, went for a walk on the beach. We're just waiting for everyone to arrive now."  
  
"Oh, well, I passed Jesse and Katie Lynne on the way here. They were at the fuel station and should be here in a few minutes. Lauren was with them. Amanda left just before me, and went out to Brentwood to get Ron, and Steven was supposed to be leaving the hospital just behind me. So, you shouldn't have much longer to wait."  
  
"Good," Steve smiled ingratiatingly, "Olivia said I could have some spaghetti tonight."  
  
Keith continued to watch, appalled, as Maribeth raised one eyebrow and Steve's smile fell.  
  
"That is, uh, if it's, um, ok with you, I mean," Steve managed to stammer before he lost his nerve and dropped his gaze to the floor.  
  
Keith knew what was happening, now. Steve hadn't seemed the henpecked husband when he and Liv had first arrived, and Maribeth hadn't seemed the overbearing type, but she was his doctor as well as his wife. Since he had become ill, they were no longer equal partners in their relationship. She was as much his caretaker as his wife. The same thing had happened between himself and Olivia years ago.  
  
It was at Maribeth's recommendation that Steve had been kept sedated for several days. Chief Archer had put him on medical leave at her insistence, and she or Steven had prescribed most of what he had been through over the past week. True, most everything had been necessary for his recovery, but somewhere along the line, she had become overprotective, and now Steve was frightened that the few privileges and pleasures left to him would be curtailed if she thought he was overdoing it.  
  
Suddenly, Keith wondered if the depression everyone was so concerned about wasn't a result of Maribeth's over involvement in Steve's recovery. She knew everything he did and everything he was supposed to be doing, and he could do nothing she didn't find out about. He probably felt he was being watched all the time.  
  
Keith would talk to O about his concerns. Steve was a strong, independent, proud man, and he had been forced into a position where he had to ask his wife's permission to join the family for dinner. While they were discussing the motorcade routes from the courthouse to the police station, he had been vibrant and vital, but now, he was almost.subservient. Maybe he really just needed something to do outside of the house and away from his family's scrutiny. Maybe he needed to get back to being a cop.  
  
Keith watched Steve furtively throughout dinner. He was unnaturally quiet and inanimate the whole time. He waited patiently for Maribeth to fill his plate for him without even asking what he wanted. She cut his meatballs in half and ran his knife through the spaghetti for him, and placed just two slices of garlic bread on his plate and a pile of green beans. Then she filled his glass with water. Steve ate and drank what she gave him without complaint and without asking for more.  
  
When someone made eye contact, Steve would force a smile, and when they spoke directly to him, he would respond quietly. He never asked a question, cracked a joke, or offered an unsolicited opinion on anything. When his plate was empty, he sat quietly, his hands folded in his lap. He was like a stranger at his own table, trying not to be noticed, and all the while, the diodes on the glove glowed red.  
  
When Mark suggested that they move into the living room for coffee and dessert, Steve looked to his wife almost desperately, and sighed with relief when he received a wink and a nod that was clearly her permission to join them. Maribeth sat beside her husband on the loveseat in the living room while the others settled themselves on various seats throughout the room. When Mark and O came in with trays of dessert and coffee, Maribeth rose and helped serve. She cut the rich chocolate cherry cheesecake Olivia had made while O passed the plates around and Mark poured coffee. Eventually, she handed Steve a transparently thin slice of the cheesecake, and instead of giving him a coffee, she went out to the kitchen and came back with a glass of water for him. For his part, Steve meekly accepted what she gave him.  
  
Keith couldn't fathom why he, a virtual stranger to Steve until last week, would be the only one to notice the odd change of personality that overcame him when Maribeth was around. The only thing he could think of was that the rest of them spent more time around Steve and were used to caring for him when he was ill, and he had only dealt with the man on a professional level. Then again, having blindly gone through what he called 'the china doll syndrome' himself years ago, he was particularly attuned to the Maribeth's dire need to help, protect, and heal her husband. O had rebelled, and it had nearly destroyed their marriage. Steve was succumbing, and it was slowly destroying him.  
  
Wanting to see what Steve would do, Keith reached over and tapped him on the elbow. When Steve turned to look at him, Keith said, "I was thinking of going for a run on the beach in about an hour, after dinner has settled, just a mile or so. Want to join me?"  
  
To Keith's immense disappointment, Steve looked to Maribeth and asked, "What do you say?"  
  
She appeared to think it over, but Keith could see her answer in her eyes. "Today was a big day for you what with the trip to the hospital and the gastroscopy and all. Maybe in a couple of days."  
  
As though Keith hadn't been sitting right there, listening, Steve turned to him and said, "I'm sorry, I don't really feel up to it this evening."  
  
Not long after that, Ron and Amanda said their goodbyes. Jesse, Katie Lynn, and Lauren followed soon afterward. As he was coming into the living room to gather up the last of the cups and saucers, Keith looked over to the love seat where Steve and Maribeth were having a quiet but animated discussion. Maribeth gave Steve a stern look, and Steve's shoulders slumped. Head hanging, Steve nodded, rose from the loveseat, and headed back toward his bedroom.  
  
When Maribeth brought over a couple of dishes to place on his tray, Keith asked, "Is he ok?"  
  
"Oh, yeah," Maribeth said carelessly. "He just decided he needed a rest, is all."  
  
Keith doubted it had been Steve's decision, but not knowing if or how he should address his concerns, he left it alone.  
  
Keith sat and watched the evening news with Mark and Olivia while Maribeth read a medical journal and Steven surfed the net. There was a brief mention of Moretti and Emily and the upcoming trial, but nothing that hadn't been known for weeks. After the news, Keith went to the spare room to change into his sweats to go for a run, and on his way back the hall, he stopped to invite Steve along.  
  
"I, uh, I'd better not," Steve stammered nervously. "Maybe tomorrow."  
  
Keith was surprised to find that Steve had already changed back into his pajamas, but he merely said, "Suit yourself," and went off to warm up for his run.  
  
  
  
Steve shut the door and crawled back into bed. Truth be told, he would have been delighted to go for a run with Keith. It was the first time in a week anyone had invited him to do anything. Oh, he hadn't been left to himself all the time he was in the hospital. In fact, more often than not, he'd had company, at least when he wasn't sedated, but tonight, for the first time since he'd collapsed, someone seemed to realize he wasn't an invalid. If Maribeth hadn't been so insistent about his need for absolute rest, he'd have accepted the invitation in a heartbeat.  
  
Instead of joining his family for a nice social evening after dinner, he had gone off to bed after dinner for some more 'much needed' rest. He'd tossed and turned for a few minutes after Keith left until realizing he'd have no better luck sleeping now than he had just after dinner, he got up and went over to sit by the window and read more of Liv's letters.  
  
As he paged through the binder, he had a sudden realization. If she and his father had been corresponding all along, she had all the details of the past thirty years of his life while hers was still a complete mystery to him. Feeling strangely exposed and at a distinct disadvantage, he found his place and began reading with renewed interest.  
  
The letter after the card that had roused him from his gloomy sulking was dated June 2005. It was unmistakably Liv's handwriting, a little wobbly, yes, but hers nonetheless. Three months had passed, and Steve could only imagine how ill she must have been to skip writing her letters for that long.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark,  
  
It has been one year since my cancer was diagnosed, 361 days since I first wrote you with the news. At that time, I was not expected to see another summer, yet here I am. I have lost a quarter of my initial body weight, and at just 87 pounds, I am wire thin. Regrettably, the hips and chest I was so proud of when I FINALLY developed them at 22 are gone. I am as bald as a windswept mountaintop, and as barren as Utah's Bonneville Salt Flats, but I am here.  
  
Better still, the tumors in my liver are shrinking, and my last chest x-ray and colonoscopy were clear. If I can just hold on, I may yet beat this monster inside me. I knew from the beginning this would be a battle of attrition, and the question has always been which of us will outlast the other. I still feel confident that I will win because I have so many people who love and care for me who are cheering me on and cheering me up every day.  
  
Besides the love and prayers of my friends and family and the chemo I have been enduring, I have also had help from an unconventional source. Edna has confessed to me that she wrote you some time ago when I was at my worst and suggested that you might not have many more opportunities to visit. Shame on her! Truly, though, I do not think her assessment of my condition at the time was far off. I was tired of fighting and feeling so very weak. Fortunately, it was about that time I heard about Dr. Love.  
  
Dr. Love is a member of the Tranquility Community, the local modern hippie commune. She is fully trained in Western medicine and has studied both ancient Eastern and Native American healing arts for years. She has been an answer to my prayers!  
  
I know you teach a survey class of traditional healing methods to the new students each year, and when this is all over, I will have her send you a copy of my case notes if you like. It is phenomenal what she has helped me achieve.  
  
Three days a week, Moon and I work with acupuncture, prayer and meditation, and positive healing imagery and biofeedback. In the three months she has been treating me, I have gained nine pounds. I have more energy than I have had in a long while, I hurt less, and I am able to keep food down more often even on the days I take chemo. She has asked me repeatedly to stop the chemo, but I haven't dared try that, yet. I still need the safety net of familiar, albeit sometimes toxic, Western medicine beneath me if I am to be brave enough to try alternative methods.  
  
To satisfy my own need for empirical data, I have volunteered myself as a sort of lab rat for some informal research Moon is doing on biofeedback. Once a month I have an arteriogram on a day when I am not working with Moon, then, a week later, after the radio-opaque dye is out of my system, I have another arteriogram while I am practicing positive healing imagery (PHI). I focus my mind on the tumors in my liver--there are three distinct masses--and I envision them shriveling as the blood supply is cut off.  
  
Mark, as outrageous as it sounds, the PHI is working! The arteriogram shows a visible reduction in blood flow to the tumors when I am meditating. In April, I started using PHI in reverse while I take the chemo as well, imagining the tumors writhing in agony (it must be my sadistic side) as the potent medicine flows into them. The cancer is shrinking fifty percent faster now than it was just three months ago! Moon says one of the reasons the PHI is working so well for me is that I have practiced yoga and self- hypnosis for years. According to her, my mind is 'highly trained to have a positive influence on the body, and by channeling that training to fight the cancer we may be able to eliminate it completely.'  
  
My confidence is high, now, Mark, and I can almost remember what it feels like to feel good again. I have started setting little goals for myself, and the first one is coming up in just three weeks. Independence Day is coming, and the whole gang is planning to spend the day hiking, fishing, and swimming at Parker Dam State Park before they head into town for the fireworks. My doctor, a very capable fellow named Jonas Griffin, has told me if I get my weight up to ninety pounds and am not running a fever, he will let me join them.  
  
At two years and nine months, Emmy is up to her usual mischief and still too smart for her own good, but Keith is coping--barely! She recently managed to get into his computer and mess about with the accounting program. It took Meyer a full day to figure out what she had done, and in the end, he left it the way it was, saying, "There's no way she can understand what she did, but it is a bold innovative strategy." He's going to leave it a month or two and see if Keith profits by it.  
  
I would tell you more, but I am growing tired. Keith sends his love and thanks you again for your regular visits. He likes you a great deal, Mark, and trusts you implicitly. I get the feeling that the only time he can leave me and relax is when he knows you are here. With everyone else, he seems to get a much-needed break, but he still worries. I thank you, too, for giving my husband and daughter a chance to have a normal life every once in a while.  
  
I will write again soon. Love, Liv  
  
P.S. I apologized to the priest. I still think he's an idiot, but that doesn't give me the right to be mean.  
  
P.P.S. Look for a package for Steven. It's a wonderfully squishy stuffed bunny rabbit. I have one to keep me company. Emmy picked mine out, and decided she wanted to send one to 'Mama and Daddy's friend Steef!' Somehow, squishy bunnies just don't seem Steve's cup of tea, so we convinced her that Steven would enjoy it more. ***  
  
  
  
Steve laughed, wondering if little Emily had made Keith a rich man in his own right when she was playing with his computer. He suspected he would find out. As he glanced back through the letter, one line struck him as particularly poignant. He knew just what Liv meant when she wrote, 'I can almost remember what it feels like to feel good again.' Over the past day or so, he had been getting glimpses of that feeling, and he hoped soon it would be back to stay.  
  
He hadn't realized how long he'd been reading until Maribeth came in.  
  
"Babe, it's almost ten o'clock. Don't you think you should be getting to bed?"  
  
Sighing, he closed the notebook. "On my way," he said. There was no point in arguing. He'd have weeks to read the rest.  
  
  
  
Keith was sitting in the tub, on a special shower seat he used when he traveled. It lightweight and easy to pack and could be adjusted to fit any size tub. It was another of his wife's improvements on an existing invention. She had signed the rights to it over to the Paralyzed Veterans of America with the stipulation that they split the profits from it with one of her charities. While he bathed, she wiped down and sterilized the interior of his prosthetics for him. It had been a ritual of theirs since they were married which Olivia had once likened to the Biblical practice of foot washing, and often, when their lives were especially busy it had been a convenient time for them to reconnect and communicate about serious matters.  
  
Tonight was no different.  
  
"Olivia, you didn't see him." Keith insisted. "While we were talking shop he was relaxed, focused, but really relaxed. Then the moment Maribeth walked in, he just changed. All the lights on the glove went from green to red, and he was really worried what she might think of him talking to me. He was almost desperate to please her."  
  
"I don't know, Keith. Steve isn't the type to let anyone push him around."  
  
"No, O," he insisted, "I know what I saw, sweetheart. He was acting just like you did the first few weeks you were out of the hospital after the cancer was gone. She was mothering him, and he was taking it."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Oh, yes." Keith described Steve's asking permission to join the family for dinner, his behavior at the dinner table and later, his response when Keith invited him to go for a run on the beach.  
  
"Oh, my God, Keith!" O was shocked. "That's just what he did, isn't it? I can't believe I didn't notice."  
  
"I think you missed it because, well, you're sort of a mother to the world. You nurture and care for everyone around you, so it didn't seem odd to you."  
  
"I suppose, but still, you'd think I would have noticed, especially if the change in his behavior was a dramatic as you say it was. So what do you plan to do about it?"  
  
"Me? I was telling you because I thought you might talk to her and get her to ease up a little."  
  
Olivia looked at her husband doubtfully and asked, "Did you leave your brain in your other jacket? I am her husband's ex-lover. Maribeth has been very kind to let us stay here, and I am sure she means it when she says she isn't jealous anymore, but I am also certain she would go through the roof if I tried to tell her to back off and let him have some room."  
  
"Oh, come on, Olivia. If anyone can get through to her, it would be you."  
  
"Not this time, Keith. How do you think I would react if one of your old flames told me I needed to give you some space?"  
  
"Not very well, I suppose."  
  
"No," O replied, "not very well at all."  
  
"Well," he said, "I'll have a talk with her tomorrow, then. I guess it's a good thing I don't have any old flames, isn't it?"  
  
"Oh, yes, it's a very good thing. You don't know how sexy it makes you to know I am the only one, ever."  
  
"Maybe you could show me," he suggested.  
  
She set aside the prosthetic she had been cleaning, stripped off her robe, and stepped into the shower with him.  
  
  
  
  
  
'Crossing Over' copyright 1985 by Roger Miller. For more information on 'Big River' see the following websites:  
  
http://www.geocities.com/Broadway/Alley/1494/bigriver.html and http://members.ozemail.com.au/~wingfold/musical.html  
  
Olivia's medical miracles are entirely a figment of my imagination. If I had any research in which to base them I would post it here. 


	20. Fresh Air and Sunshine

(Chapter 20. Malibu beach house, Roger Gorini's warehouse. March 25.)  
  
Maribeth was awake about five minutes before six in the morning. The alarm was set to sound at six thirty, but she turned it off so it wouldn't wake her husband. Steve needed his rest. She lay beside him and watched him sleep for a few minutes. It was so good just to *be* here with him for a change, to smell his scent, feel his warmth, hear the slow steady rhythm of his breathing. Except for the rare vacation, the last time she could remember going to bed with him and waking up alongside him the next morning for more than two or three days in a row had been when he was recovering from his heart attack eight years ago. She couldn't help but hope that if he got used to the easy pace of days enjoyed by a man of leisure, there might be a chance of getting him to retire. The two of them still had a few good years ahead, and it would be nice to spend them together.  
  
She wished she had been able to spend this week with Steve since he was home and she could have had him all to herself, but she had already agreed to cover for Peter Green while he was off at a conference and as a result, she had been spending long hours at the hospital. Between her patients and Peter's and the inevitable emergencies that kept popping up, she had been lucky to see daylight the past several days. No matter, though, Peter was back from the conference now, and once he heard about Steve's situation, he had agreed to go on call for the next month so she could spend more time with her husband. In her mind, Peter was a genuine hero, because now all she had to worry about were her regular rounds and previously scheduled surgeries and appointments. She was back to eight-hour days, and would have plenty of time to spend with Steve.  
  
She smiled as Steve snuggled closer and murmured her name, then frowned as his arm came up to rest on the pillow and she saw all the diodes glowing red and amber, even in his sleep. She kissed him softly on the temple and smoothed his tousled hair back behind his ear. Her hand gently followed the line of his jaw down to his throat, and along his neck to rest against his chest where she felt the reassuring thud of his heartbeat. The lights slowly dropped to amber and green. Steve smiled, and she smiled, too, delighted to know that even in his sleep, he knew and enjoyed her touch. After thirty years, moments like this still hadn't lost their wonder. She gave him another kiss and heard him sigh contentedly, then she slipped out of bed quietly, careful not to wake him.  
  
  
  
Keith was waiting just outside Maribeth's bedroom door when she emerged at six fifteen. She was bleary-eyed, bespectacled, still had bed-head, and wore mismatched slippers on her feet. She backed out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind her so as not to wake her husband. Then she turned toward the kitchen, jumped about three feet in the air, and stumbled backward, barely strangling a scream before she woke the whole house, flapping her arms and gasping in fright, as Keith said a quiet, "Good morning."  
  
"Goodness!" she whispered sharply, "Good morning. You nearly scared the life out of me."  
  
"Sorry about that," he murmured back.  
  
"Did you need something?"  
  
"No."  
  
He stood facing her in the hall, leaning his shoulder against one wall, not exactly blocking the way, but not really giving her room to pass either. When he refused to move, Maribeth turned sideways and sidled past him. As she padded quietly out to the kitchen, she heard him following her.  
  
She entered the kitchen, took a deep breath, smelled coffee in the air, and sighed with relief. "Thank God somebody set the timer," she said.  
  
She went over to the coffeemaker, and Keith followed close at her heels. She poured a cup of coffee and handed it to him, and he accepted it with a soft, "Thank you." Then she poured another cup for herself, and turned to the refrigerator for some milk to put in her coffee. She offered some to Keith who was still hovering at her elbow, but he shook his head no. So, she shut the refrigerator door, and turned to go to the table. Again, Keith wasn't quite blocking her way, but wasn't leaving her room to get by, either.  
  
He was certainly acting strangely today.  
  
Shrugging, Maribeth put her coffee on the center island and headed out to the front door to get the morning paper. When she came back in the house, already intently reading the front-page news, she walked headfirst into Keith who had been watching her from the foyer. They each stumbled back a step, and she looked at him in exasperation.  
  
"Are you sure you don't need anything?"  
  
Keith shrugged. "Nope. I'm fine."  
  
This time she squeezed past him without waiting to see if he would move to let her by. She went back to the kitchen, picked up her coffee from the island, slipped around Keith again as he had come to block her way, and sat at the table to drink her coffee and read her paper. She would have preferred to get some fresh air and sunshine out on the deck, but it was still too cold for that this year.  
  
She heard Keith sit across from her, and she swore she could feel him watching. Maybe he thought he was being funny. It seemed a rather sophomoric joke to her, and she decided she simply wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of noticing.  
  
After about fifteen minutes, Maribeth decided to freshen her coffee. She downed the last of the cooling liquid in two gulps and headed back to the coffeemaker, Keith just a step behind her. As she picked up the coffeepot, he cleared his throat quietly.  
  
"What?" She asked, tersely.  
  
"Are you sure you want that?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"Ok," Keith sighed, "but if you have it, you may live to regret it. Too much coffee isn't good for you."  
  
She peered at him through bifocals. "If I *don't* have it, you may *not* live to regret it. Too *little* coffee for me could be very bad for *you*. What is up with you this morning anyway?"  
  
"Oh, nothing," Keith said in an exaggeratedly offhand manner.  
  
"Uh-huh." Maribeth made it clear she didn't believe him.  
  
As she scuffled back to the table, Keith hid a smile, please that his plan was working so well already.  
  
  
  
"God, kid, you're killin' me!"  
  
"Quit complaining and save your air for breathing, Moretti. Keep running! You're almost to the top of the hill."  
  
"Ahhhhhhh.ahhhhhhh.ahhhhhhh.Yeahhhhhhh!" Moretti shouted as he reached the top of the hill, and he and Emily celebrated with high fives and slaps on the back. Less than three weeks ago, he hadn't even been able to walk to the top, and now he was jogging it. Besides the fitness routine she'd helped him establish, he was actually enjoying the running because it gave him a chance to get out of the house Em was renting. It was nice to get a breath of fresh air once in a while. He'd lost twelve pounds last time he was on the scale and over three inches from his waist. With Emmy's help, he was not only losing fat, but also building muscle, and he looked slimmer and firmer and felt younger than he had in years. He had a long way to go, he knew, but this hilltop had been a goal he'd been working toward for eighteen days now, and he had finally made it. He couldn't recall ever being so proud of anything he had done.  
  
Suddenly, he fell silent.  
  
"What's the matter?" Emily asked.  
  
Moretti shrugged and said, "I just realized I have to go back down now. Uuuuuugh!"  
  
Emmy laughed. "Man, you're not happy unless you're complaining, are you?"  
  
"I guess not," Moretti said.  
  
The truth was, he didn't know how to tell her how pathetic he felt to know that running up this hill was his greatest moment in all his sixty-plus years.  
  
  
  
"Wah!"  
  
When Maribeth emerged from her bedroom dressed and ready for work, she was so startled to find Keith lurking in the hallway again that she couldn't suppress a tiny squeak this time. God, she wanted to wipe that goofy little grin off his face with her fist, but that would only give him what he wanted, whatever the hell that was. She was getting tired of this stupid game, and couldn't figure out why he had started it, but she was leaving for the hospital in a few minutes, and she'd be damned if she'd let him get to her before then. She headed out to the kitchen to say goodbye to Mark and Steve, and as Steve went to dip his knife in the butter for his toast, she pulled it away from him and said, "You need to go easy on that stuff. It's not good for your cholesterol or your ulcers."  
  
Steve sighed, put his knife down, and said, "Ok," then he bit into the dry toast. All the lights on the glove were bright red.  
  
She kissed him on the cheek and, as she crossed the kitchen, said, "Don't over do it, and be sure to get some rest this afternoon. I'll see you around six. I love you. Bye."  
  
She pushed past Keith and headed out the door. As she crossed the driveway, she hit the remote control that disengaged the locking device on her car. She opened the door, put her briefcase on the floor behind her seat, sat down, turned to shut the door and found Keith standing in the way, grinning like an idiot.  
  
She took a deep breath, huffed and puffed and finally said, "Ok, what in the hell are you doing?"  
  
Keith laughed slightly and said, "I'm glad you finally asked."  
  
  
  
Leigh Ann rewound the tape from Roger's bug in the pathology lab and played it again.  
  
"Jess, Liv and Keith were married on Valentine's Day. Emily's birthday, her *thirtieth* birthday, Jess, was in September."  
  
"But Steve, that's only seven months."  
  
There was a brief silence.  
  
"Ohhh, that's *only* seven months."  
  
"I know."  
  
Leigh Ann smiled.  
  
  
  
Keith crouched to be on Maribeth's level. He had to hold on to the car door and the doorframe for balance, but he knew she'd never listen if he started talking down to her.  
  
"I'm sorry if I got on your nerves, but I wanted you to know how Steve felt."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Everybody's watching him, all the time, Maribeth, and they all report back to you. He's under constant scrutiny, and it's smothering him."  
  
Maribeth gave a snort of laughter. "Please," she said derisively. "You make it sound like he's a prisoner."  
  
Calmly and seriously, Keith said, "He is."  
  
She laughed again. "Pah! This is ridiculous."  
  
Keith stood and offered her his hand. "Let's go for a walk," he suggested.  
  
"I'll be late."  
  
"It will be ok. I told Steven I needed to talk to you, and he's going to get someone to cover for you." When she hesitated, he said, "Please, for Steve's sake."  
  
She took his hand and stepped out of the car.  
  
  
  
Steve had been reading Liv's letters since he had woken up that morning at about twenty after six. They were typically full of news, and each one contained only a brief mention of her battle with her illness. She seemed to be getting better and in every letter, she mentioned that she had gained a little weight or had reached a small milestone. Steve's own mother had lost her battle with cancer years ago, and sometimes he still missed her. Since then, he had known other people who'd suffered with it. Some had lived, and some had not, but from knowing them, he was able to recognize each of Liv's small achievements for what it was--a reaffirmation of life and hope--and as he read about her gradual healing process, he got the feeling that there might be a light at the end of the tunnel for him, too.  
  
He'd stopped to have a bite for breakfast around seven thirty, and now that Maribeth had headed off to work, he planned to read for a couple more hours. Then maybe he'd go for a walk on the beach and putter around in the garden for a while. It was going to be a big day, he thought sarcastically.  
  
He'd noticed Olivia's handwriting had steadily improved since the letter where she was hoping to join her friends for the Fourth of July, but as he turned to a letter dated July of 2006, it was suddenly nearly illegible again. This time, though, it wasn't cramped and wobbly. Now, the page was covered in quick bold pen strokes. Words splashed carelessly across the page.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark!  
  
I'm just too excited to write a real letter, so you will have to settle for my news and trust that I will tell you more, later!  
  
My latest blood test has come back clear!!!!!!!!!! There is no sign of cancer!  
  
Emmy has written an opera! She's not yet four!  
  
I have apologized to the priest!  
  
Congratulate Amanda and Ron for me! There's a gift on the way!  
  
We're off to celebrate! I love you! God bless!  
  
Happy day!!!!!!!!!!  
  
Love! Liv! ***  
  
  
  
Steve had to laugh at the plethora of exclamation points. He'd always marveled at Liv's ability to get excited over the small things in life, and she had greeted this wonderful news with the same childlike delight she had once greeted a trip to Disneyland. Of course, he'd known there would eventually be a letter saying she was well again, but he was thrilled for her just the same.  
  
  
  
Keith and Maribeth were about half a block from the house. They had been walking and talking for just a few minutes, and Keith was trying to keep the conversation going until they got a little farther down the street.  
  
"Then I came home from work one day, and she was gone. No note, no phone number, no forwarding address, nothing. She'd taken some clothes and some books, and that was it."  
  
Maribeth stopped and stared. "And you had no idea it was coming, did you?"  
  
Keith shook his head. "If you had given me a quarter, I wouldn't have been able to go out and *buy* a clue. I thought she had been kidnapped. She's extraordinarily wealthy, and a lot of people know that."  
  
Laughing, Maribeth said, "Men are just so incredibly dense."  
  
"Some of us are," he agreed, "but in my experience, so are an equally proportional number of women."  
  
"Well!" Maribeth said, but before she could protest further, he cut her off.  
  
"Do you do any gardening?" Keith asked.  
  
Thoroughly confused now, all she could do was answer. "Some. Dad takes care of most of it. He enjoys pottering around among the plants, and since he's retired, he has all the time in the world to do it, but the petunias and geraniums are mine."  
  
"Good."  
  
They walked a little further in silence. Maribeth was curious about where this conversation was going next, but she was so confused by Keith's sudden change of tack that she didn't even know what to ask to elicit more information.  
  
  
  
"Jeeeeezus!" Ron heard 'Fredo Cioffi murmur as he entered the office a step behind the FBI agent. The place reeked of decay, and as Ron pulled out a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth and filter some of the stench, the young officer followed his lead. Ron glanced at the young man and noticed he was slightly green and perspiring.  
  
"Ok," he said, turning to his right and looking for a secret passageway, "Joey said the door was over here somewhere. Call the ME's office and ask my wife to come over here to take care the body. This whole place needs to be photographed and dusted for prints. Get Donovan and your dad in here to help."  
  
"Yessir!"  
  
He heard the clatter of running footsteps across the hardwood floor, then he heard them stumble. His own stomach clenched and he had to swallow hard as to quell the sympathetic reflex that threatened when he heard young Cioffi heaving just outside the office door. Ron sighed. At least he'd been able to wait until he was out of the crime scene proper.  
  
Abandoning his task, Ron left the office and knelt beside the younger man on the warehouse floor. Putting a hand on his shoulder, Ron tried very hard to avoid looking at what 'Fredo had deposited there.  
  
"Are you all right, now?"  
  
'Fredo was still gasping for breath, but he did manage to nod.  
  
"Ok, change of plans," Ron said evenly. "First, get yourself some air. Then call the ME's office and send your dad and Donovan in here. Warn them what they're coming into. When you feel up to it, *if* you feel up to it, come back in and help us."  
  
"Yes, sir," 'Fredo said as he rose unsteadily to his feet. "I'm sorry, sir."  
  
Ron shook his head. "Don't apologize. Most of us have been there one time or another, but if it should ever happen again, just go and deal with it instead of trying to wait around for orders. There's not a man worth serving with who wouldn't understand."  
  
"Yes, sir." Ron was gratified to see the rookie smile. He was going to be a damned fine cop one day, and it was really a shame he hadn't joined the bureau.  
  
  
  
Steve sighed and turned the page. He'd read a year's worth of letters in the past hour and while Liv's health had gotten better and better, Emily had become more and more of a handful and her marriage had gotten steadily worse. She and Keith had argued over everything from housework to vacation plans to who was going to decorate the Christmas tree. Seeing them now, he never would have dreamed Keith and Liv had faced marital problems. The thoughtful frown that had settled on his face deepened as he turned the page.  
  
  
  
*** Dear Mark,  
  
Well, enough is enough and I have finally done it. Note the new return address.  
  
As I have told you, Keith has been infuriatingly overprotective since I was allowed to come home last year. Breakfasts in bed and having him take care of the laundry and other housework were lovely at first, but then I came to realize he wasn't so much willing to help, as he was terrified that I was too fragile to do it myself. Everything I have tried to do for the past year, from making dinner to hiking in the woods with Emmy, has been a constant battle with him. He cannot accept that I do not need his permission to fire up the grill or run the vacuum cleaner, and he refuses to believe that I will know when I need help and won't be too proud to ask for it. And God forbid I should tell him, 'No, I don't need a nap right now.'  
  
After what happened last week, I am still so angry, if he were standing here before me, I would wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze until his eyeballs popped out!  
  
I can tell you are laughing. Stop it! ***  
  
  
  
Steve had smiled at her threat, then chuckled at, 'I can tell you are laughing.' When he read, 'Stop it!' he laughed aloud. In her letters, Liv's rants often took on the tone of an angry comic raging at the little injustices of the world, and the occasional odd turn of a phrase only enhanced that effect.  
  
The next paragraph made him suddenly more serious.  
  
  
  
*** One night last week, we were watching the news coverage of the riots and praying for all of you and hoping everything was all right. It had been on all day, every day here, and we stayed glued to the set. When the mob crossed the Hollywood Freeway, I began to worry for Steve. Keith said things would settle down before they got that far, but I was not convinced. When they hit the Northeast Community Police Station, I knew Steve was in trouble.  
  
I actually ate dinner in front of the TV that night, Emily by my side. Oh, I know it was rather graphic for a child, but Mark, she is mature and intelligent enough already to understand the reasons behind the rioting, and as a result, the violence isn't so scary for her.  
  
Well, about ten o'clock, my self-appointed keeper, my infuriating, sanctimonious, husband stood up and snapped off the set, saying, 'Ok, girls, bedtime.'  
  
I could have slapped him silly!  
  
You're laughing again. Stop it! ***  
  
  
  
Steve was indeed laughing again. He didn't think his dad was so predictable, but to him there was just something funny about Olivia in a full-blown rage at her well-meaning husband. In his mind, she was like an angry hummingbird, certainly not overpowering an annoying old crow, but driving him off with her far superior quickness and agility. Even if he was only mildly amused, the 'Stop it!' made him laugh every time. It was as if she wanted to emphasize that even in the heat of the moment, she realized her fury was only a temporary thing and nothing to be terribly concerned about.  
  
He continued reading.  
  
  
  
*** Over the past year, I have learned that it does little good to put up a fight when Keith is in his Mother Hen mood, so, that night I just bit my tongue, and followed instructions. The next morning, after he had gone to work, taking Emmy to his mother's on the way because he still thinks I am too frail to deal with her (idiot!), I packed a bag, got in the jeep, and found an apartment in town.  
  
I have told his mother where I am staying, and I have promised to call if I need anything. With May as a mediator, we have worked out a private shared custody of Emily, and I am sure in time everything will be ok, but Mark, I swear, every time I think of him telling me, 'bedtime,' I still see red. I don't intend to leave him for good, but until he can treat me like an adult again instead of a child or worse yet, some damned china doll, I have to stay away. Maybe, if I live on my own for a month or two without self- destructing, he will realize I can take care of myself and I have the sense to recognize my limits and take a break when I need to.  
  
I have also, finally, decided to go back to work. It has only been the last month or so that I have been able to keep busy with the house and yard work all day without being exhausted at night, and now that I am in my apartment, there is no yard, so I will need something to occupy my time. I start back on Monday working nine to one, and in a couple weeks, if I handle that ok, I will have a full schedule again.  
  
Say a prayer for Keith and me. Hopefully, we will be back together by Emily's birthday in September, or, if not then, maybe in time for Thanksgiving. I think I just need to make him understand that I am still whole and finally healthy again. Once he gets rid of his image of me as an invalid, we should be ok. ***  
  
  
  
Steve frowned. There was something terribly familiar about Liv's story, but he really couldn't put his finger on it. He felt as though he had read it somewhere before, but for some reason, he doubted that was the case. Maybe it was just that he'd read several other letters in which she described how Keith had been smothering her and it was all starting to sound the same.  
  
  
  
"I accused O of abandoning Emily and me," Keith admitted. "She said she could hardly abandon Emmy when I hadn't left her alone to care for the child since before she got sick, and as for me, well, she said she was escaping."  
  
"From the sound of things, that's exactly what she was doing, Keith. You weren't her husband anymore; you were her keeper. I'd have left you, too."  
  
Maribeth wasn't sure why, but the odd little grin Keith gave her made her nervous.  
  
"Do you know why she finally left me?"  
  
Maribeth hated to ask. She knew she wouldn't like the answer, but she could see no way around it. "Why?"  
  
"Because I told her it was bedtime. She was watching the riots that you had out here a couple years after the big quake, and I decided she needed some rest, so I turned off the TV and told her it was bedtime."  
  
Maribeth laughed. "You're lucky she didn't hit you."  
  
"Don't I know it," Keith agreed. "She might be small, but she packs one hell of a wallop."  
  
They walked a few steps in silence, then Keith asked, "Maribeth, don't you see that you're doing the same thing to Steve?"  
  
"Excuse me? I don't think so."  
  
"Think about it, Maribeth. You've been telling him what and how much he can eat, when to go to sleep, when to wake up, what he's allowed to do with his waking hours, even how much butter he's allowed to have on his toast."  
  
"He has ulcers and a history of heart disease!" she said defensively. "I'm trying to get him to take care of himself."  
  
"You're trying to save him from himself," Keith said firmly, but gently, "but you're killing him by inches."  
  
"But I--"  
  
"You what?" Keith made it a challenge. He demanded a good answer.  
  
"I'm a doctor," she said flatly.  
  
"You're also a worried wife. I did the same thing twenty-five years ago, and O escaped me by walking out. Steve is escaping you by turning in on himself. He's hiding in his depression."  
  
  
  
Steve turned to the last page of Olivia's letter. It was so familiar he still couldn't shake the idea that he had read it before, but he knew that wasn't the case. The last page was no longer about her troubles with her husband. He smiled when he realized it was about him.  
  
  
  
*** I put my letter aside an hour ago to watch the CBS Evening News Special Report on the riots with Dan Rather. Steve acquitted himself well, and you should be proud of him. I am sure he is much too modest to be proud of himself.  
  
I had to laugh when Rather asked Steve how he had chosen the officers to back him up. I could tell by the look on Rather's face that he never expected so innocent an answer as, 'They're my friends. I knew I could trust them.' Of course, five minutes later I was livid again as Rather and that annoying woman whose name I can never recall discussed Steve's 'possible future political career' and his 'likely agenda' now that he had 'gotten lucky, and with a desperate plan, single-handedly quelled the riots threatening to level LA.'  
  
Augghhhh!  
  
I doubt that Steve simply got lucky. You know my faith, and I believe he had a divine power guiding him the whole time, telling him the right things to say and do. I am sure Steve would be the first to admit he was desperate, but then so was the rest of LA, and I know he would heatedly deny he had done anything single-handedly. He must have been furious when he saw the interview.  
  
It agitates me no end that these jaded hacks and shamelessly overpaid and over-praised muckrakers could with just a few words tarnish such a decent man with all the trappings of a politician including an 'agenda.' Have things really gotten so bad that the world just can't accept that there are still good men with good intentions willing to do good things? Don't they realize that there are people who don't give a fat baby's butt what race, religion, or ethnicity their friends are? Does no one else see what I did when I watched that interview: a man who was singularly relieved to have completed the one and only item on his so-called 'agenda', that being bringing an end to the bloodshed and loss of life.  
  
Maybe I should contact Dan Rather and offer him an, 'I Knew Him When.' story about Steve. He could sit down with Keith and talk about what Steve was like when he was visiting here five years ago. Then, after Keith told Rather what a hero Steve was when Ted escaped and how nobly he stepped aside at the wedding.I COULD KNOCK THEIR HEADS TOGETHER AND SATISFY MY RAGE WITH BOTH OF THEM AT ONCE!  
  
I know you're laughing again. Stop it!  
  
I'll write again soon, and hopefully, I will be in a better mood.  
  
Love, Liv ***  
  
  
  
Steve sighed and shut the notebook. He could tell by the outrageous suggestions Liv had made at the end of the letter that she had worked out the worst of her anger as she wrote to his father. He got up and stretched and decided he needed a shower to wake himself up, then he was going to go out for a run on the beach. Having been cooped up so long, he missed the smell of the sea, salt air, and sun.  
  
  
  
Keith stopped in front of a house a few blocks down from the beach house. He'd seen this place earlier in the week, and he knew it would illustrate his point perfectly. With an arm around Maribeth's shoulders, he turned her to face the house.  
  
"Look at the garden, tell me what you would do differently."  
  
"Well," she said, her voice plainly revealing her confusion as she observed the jumble of spindly, feeble-looking plants through the wrought-iron gate. The only healthy thing in it was the ivy, and it was running rampant up the walls, around the trees and over a sheltered walkway.  
  
"I think I'd start by pruning back the trees. Then I'd probably tear down roof over the path and knock out the front wall."  
  
"Why? Don't they shelter the garden?"  
  
"Well, yeah, but they do too much. The plants aren't getting any sun."  
  
"So," Keith said, standing beside her and looking at the sorry garden, "you know that when you plant a garden, you need it to be sheltered from the elements, but if it's too well protected it won't flourish because it doesn't get any sun or rain. That's what you're doing to Steve now, Maribeth. That's what I did to O. She was like the ivy, taking off and growing wild wherever she could find the sun. Steve is like the other plants, eking by on what little light he can get where he is."  
  
They were silent a moment, then Keith said, "I suppose you should be happy in a way. O left me. Steve loves you enough to stay, despite what it's costing him."  
  
After another brief silence, Maribeth practically growled at him, "My husband is not a geranium."  
  
Keith stood alone, looking at the garden for several more minutes before he followed her back to the house.  
  
  
  
As Steve lathered the soap in the shower, he couldn't shake the mental image of Keith snapping off the television and telling Olivia it was, 'bedtime.' It played in his head repeatedly, and as he rinsed the shampoo from his eyes, it somehow morphed into an image of Maribeth snatching the butter dish away from him at breakfast telling him, 'You need to go easy on that stuff.'  
  
Suddenly he knew why Liv's story seemed so familiar, he understood her anger, and he knew what he had to do. He rinsed off quickly, dried himself, and dressed. Then he got the big suitcase out from under the bed, and in five minutes, he had it packed full. He had to sit on it to fasten the latches and mused that Olivia had probably packed with more care. She wouldn't have had to squash the case shut to latch it, and her things had likely come out of it less wrinkled than his would. She was precise about everything.  
  
Right now, though, precision and tidiness didn't matter much to him. He could buy an iron and smooth out the wrinkles later. He just had to get out of the house and away from his wife for a few days. He needed to convince her and himself that he would not self-destruct if he went back to normal life. He wasn't even going to say goodbye. He knew if he tried, he'd never be able to go. He hadn't lived on his own in forty years, and the prospect was as frightening as it was exhilarating.  
  
He glanced at the diodes on the glove and was surprised to note they were only glowing amber and not scarlet red.  
  
Steve set the suitcase by the door, then he got his old nylon gym bag out of the closet. Into it, he threw some workout clothes, his robe, a pair of pajamas, his shaving kit, and a couple spare pairs of shoes. Finally, he dumped in the entire contents of his socks and underwear drawer. He put the bag over next to the suitcase, put two of his good suits in a garment bag so that he had something appropriate to wear to the trial, and hung the garment bag on a hook on the back of the bedroom door.  
  
When he finished packing, he stood in the middle of the bedroom, panting slightly. He considered leaving a note, but couldn't bring himself to try to compose a suitable message. Finally, he placed the notebook on the bed, open to the last letter he'd read. That would explain it all.  
  
Opening the bedroom door, Steve listened intently for a few minutes and heard his dad and Liv talking out on the deck. If he was quiet, he could be gone before they realized he was leaving. He slung the gym bag over his shoulder, took the suitcase in one hand, and looped one finger of the other under the hanger of the garment bag. At the end of the hall, he set the suitcase down and grabbed the keys to his truck. Then he opened the front door, picked up the suitcase again, and slipped outside.  
  
Halfway down the steps he froze as he saw Maribeth coming toward him.  
  
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked.  
  
"I'm leaving for a while, Maribeth. I need some time on my own." Though his stomach was burning, he ignored the sensation as he finished descending the steps and headed for his truck.  
  
"I don't think that's a very good idea."  
  
"I realize that, but you're not gonna stop me."  
  
"We'll just see about that," she said and grabbed the gym bag.  
  
Steve set the suitcase down beside the truck and draped his suits over the side of the truck bed. Then he gave the bag a yank.  
  
To his surprise, Maribeth held on. Now she had one handle and he had the other.  
  
"Let go, Mar," he demanded, tugging harder, "I'm going, and that's that."  
  
"No!" she insisted taking her handle in both hands and leaning back. "We'll work this out, Steve."  
  
Steve suddenly became aware that they had acquired a small audience. His dad and Liv were watching from the door, and Keith was at the end of the driveway. He took his handle in both hands as Maribeth had done, set his feet, and pulled. He was determined to win this tug of war.  
  
"I promise I'll come back," he vowed, "but right now, I need to go off by myself."  
  
"Steve, please!" she pleaded, "I promise I'll ease up!"  
  
"You never have before!" he shouted back.  
  
"I never realized I had to," she told him.  
  
They were fighting over the bag almost as much as they were arguing over his leaving, and each of them knew its final disposition would determine the outcome of the argument.  
  
Suddenly, with an ear splitting, skin crawling tearing of nylon, the bag surrendered to the rough treatment and split in two sending shaving kit, pajamas, bathrobe, sweat suits, shoes, and a couple dozen pairs of socks and underwear flying into the air to scatter themselves about the driveway. Steve fell back against the truck where he hit with a thud and a curse before he slipped to the ground. Maribeth stumbled backward several steps before she tripped and tumbled to the gravel with a thump and a yelp.  
  
They sat up almost simultaneously and glared at each other for a moment. Then Maribeth held up a miniscule, leopard print jock strap that had landed near her. With barely suppressed laughter she asked, "You were taking this?"  
  
Blushing crimson, Steve looked to his side and grabbed something. For her perusal, he held up a pair of shiny, black satin boxers with a bright red kiss embroidered over the fly. "I was taking everything," he said sheepishly.  
  
After a moment of strained silence, the two burst into laughter. Grinning from the doorway for a moment, Mark eventually nodded to himself and tottered back into the house, confident now that his son really was going to be all right. Liv looked across the driveway to her husband and gave him the thumbs up, then she also went inside and he went for another walk down the block to give their friends some privacy.  
  
As Steve and Maribeth gathered up his things, they kept breaking into fits of laughter. They were still chuckling when they headed into the house, Maribeth walking ahead with the garment bag over her shoulder, and Steve following her, suitcase in one hand, the remains of the gym bag and its contents clutched to his chest with the other. Still giggling, they went back into the bedroom and began unpacking Steve's things.  
  
As he replaced the items that belonged in his underwear drawer, Maribeth shot a shimmering blue bit of cloth at him, and he groaned.  
  
"Thank you for not showing them this," he murmured. Just a scrap of blue covered elastic with a pouch sewn on at the middle, it wasn't even really a g-string. It had been a gag gift from Maribeth for their fifth anniversary, and he had only worn it for her the one time. Like the satin boxers and the racy jock she had bought him years ago, it had been briefly entertaining and then got shoved to the back of the drawer. *Briefly!* he rolled his eyes.  
  
"Oh, I don't know," she whispered in his ear. "I think it matches your eyes nicely."  
  
"Somehow, I think that would only have made things worse," he said, and they both collapsed in giggles once again.  
  
After several minutes, Steve caught his breath. Then his smile faded, and he said desperately, "Mar, I've got to get out of here."  
  
"I know that, Steve, and I'm sorry I didn't realize it sooner, but you're still not well."  
  
"Mar, please."  
  
They were standing close, so she covered his mouth with her own and kissed him breathless. Several moments later, she pulled away and stepped across the room.  
  
"Eight 'til noon, five days a week," she said, knowing she was giving up all hope of ever having him to herself. "You come home for lunch, and then you can go for a run on the beach or mess around in the garden or go surfing or whatever, but for now, you stay away from police work after lunch. In a week or two, we'll see. I'll call Tanis and tell her you're clear to go back part time starting today."  
  
"Maribeth."  
  
She cut him off as she left their bedroom.  
  
"No, Steve, that's it for now. Eight 'til noon. I'll see you tonight. I'm late for work."  
  
She ran out to her car and dropped into the seat where she sat crying for a long time. When she turned to close the car door, she was startled to find Keith in her way yet again.  
  
"Dammit!" she swore. "What does it take to get rid of you, garlic and a crucifix or just a silver bullet? It's a shame daylight doesn't seem to do the trick."  
  
Keith laughed softly at her outburst. Then he put a hand on her arm.  
  
"You can leave me alone now," she pouted. "I told him he could go back to work half days. In another week or two it will probably be full time, and then he'll be back to his old routine."  
  
He squeezed her arm gently and said, "It's ok if you want to hate me for it, but I think you know you did the right thing."  
  
Sighing, she nodded.  
  
"I wish he would just quit," she confessed, "but if he could do that, he wouldn't be my Steve anymore. How did you walk away from it?"  
  
Keith smiled and shrugged. "I don't know. I'm not the same kind of man he is. For me it was a job; what I did, not who I was. When I lost my legs, I took over the weapons cage, and that was good enough for me. I was still building my pension and got to hang out with my friends. I was a good cop when I was on active duty, but it was never a calling, never a way of life."  
  
Maribeth looked at her watch and said, "It's getting late, almost ten. Why don't you give him a lift? Tell him just for today he can stay until two, but starting tomorrow, he leaves at lunchtime. I'll call and let Cheryl know he's coming. Then I'll sign a provisional health certification and send it on over to the Chief Archer."  
  
"Ok," Keith agreed as he stepped away from the car and shut the door. "I'll take good care of him for you," he promised.  
  
"You better," Maribeth said, "or I'll make you wish you had."  
  
  
  
"Oh, shit!" 'Fredo Cioffi cursed softly.  
  
"What?" Donovan asked.  
  
The two young officers had been put to work in Roger Gorini's secret apartment listening to all the cassettes and writing down what was on each one. They'd already closed a dozen cases, and opened dozens more. They knew who was sleeping with whom on the city council, and they'd found out how the same two or three businessmen kept getting city contracts, and there were still hundreds upon hundreds of tapes to go. As far as 'Fredo Cioffi was concerned, though, this was by far the biggest, most damaging scrap of conversation he had come across.  
  
"What is it, 'Fredo?" Donovan demanded anxiously.  
  
"Listen." He took off his headphones and handed them over to his partner. Then he rewound the tape and played it back. He watched Charles as, first his eyes grew wide, and then his face clouded over.  
  
Charles Donovan was surprised to hear Chief Sloan's voice on the tape. He wouldn't have believe the man capable of saying anything he was ashamed to have other people hear, and so he was surprised that Roger Gorini had found one of his conversations potential material for blackmail.  
  
As the conversation went on though, he knew this could be big trouble for his idol.  
  
"Jess, Liv and Keith were married on Valentine's Day. Emily's birthday, her *thirtieth* birthday, Jess, was in September."  
  
"But Steve, that's only seven months."  
  
There was a brief silence.  
  
"Ohhh, that's *only* seven months."  
  
"I know."  
  
Charles took the headphones off said, "'Fredo, you're looking kinda green. Why don't you go get some air."  
  
"I'm fine Charles. What do you think we should do about that tape?"  
  
"'Fredo, man, just go get some air before I tell Agent Wagner you're about to puke on the evidence."  
  
"Charles," 'Fredo said suspiciously, "what are you up to?"  
  
"Just get the hell outta here, dammit!"  
  
Knowing only that Donovan was getting quickly more agitated and that he probably would embarrass him in front of Agent Wagner again if he didn't comply, 'Fredo finally walked out for a few minutes. When he came back, there was a different tape in his machine, and the one with the Chief's secret on it was nowhere to be found.  
  
"Feeling better?" Donovan asked casually.  
  
"I thought so," 'Fredo said, "but now I'm not so sure."  
  
Just then, Captain Bentley-Wagner came over and said, "Hey guys, be ready to report your findings so far in half an hour. Chief Sloan is back on half days starting today, and he's on his way over here now."  
  
After the captain left, Cioffi and Donovan exchanged a look, and this time, each noticed that the other had turned slightly green. 


	21. Alive Again

(Chapter 21. Malibu beach house, Roger Gorini's warehouse. March 25-27.)  
  
Steve felt like a kid on the first day of school as he entered the warehouses of the Buona Fortuna Import-Export Company. One of Joey Russo's tips had led the task force here, and as he'd ridden to the docks with Keith, Steve had Ron bring him up to speed over the secure cell phone. The body they'd found at the scene was that of his dad's news broadcaster friend Roger (a.k.a. Rogelio) Gorini, who, according to Joey, was also the nephew of one Vincent Gaudino. Also, according to Joey, Roger had been ordered to eliminate Moretti and Emily at his phony safe house just a week ago, and the failure of Joey and his colleagues was probably the main cause of Gorini's death even though the official report would list it as a thirty- eight caliber bullet. Ron had told him about the extensive collection of tapes, most of them audio, but some also video, that were found in Gorini's secret apartment at the warehouse as well, and Steve couldn't wait to find out what was on them.  
  
As he stepped into the office, Ron welcomed him with a grin and an extended hand, which Steve gladly shook.  
  
"It's good to have you back," the FBI agent said.  
  
"It's good to *be* back," Steve said with pleasure, "even if it's only for half days." Sniffing, he made a face and said, "Even that smell couldn't keep me away."  
  
Ron laughed and said, "You might have felt differently a couple of hours ago. Since then, we've photographed everything, dusted for prints, had the body removed, and aired the place out."  
  
Casting a glance back at the mess on the floor just outside the office door, Steve said, "Looks like you didn't do it quickly enough."  
  
Ron grinned and said, "That's 'Fredo Cioffi's breakfast. I think it was his first dead body."  
  
Steve cast an appreciative glance the length of the floor and said, "He made it that far? I am impressed."  
  
  
  
"Aughhh!" Emily groaned as she straightened up from removing her cross- trainers.  
  
"Whassamatter?" Moretti asked, concerned. Emmy had been moaning and groaning a lot lately.  
  
"My back's been killing me ever since Giani slammed me into the bookshelves at the second safe house. It just keeps getting worse and worse."  
  
"Want me to take a look at it?"  
  
"What, you a doctor now?" she said sarcastically.  
  
"No, but in my line of work, you learn a little about takin' care of aches and pains. Sometimes doctors ask too damn many questions."  
  
"Thanks anyway, Moretti, but . . . AHHHH!" She suddenly yelped in pain as she tried to remove her jacket and froze in position.  
  
"Ok, kid, that's it. I give one hell of a massage, and you need one." As he gently helped her off with the jacket and guided her to her bedroom, he continued. "You've probably done some muscle damage. You can leave your shirt on, if you want, but you ain't sayin' no."  
  
Emmy just moaned, "Ohhhh. Owwww," as he helped her lie down.  
  
  
  
"Peeeeeter!" Maribeth called sweetly down the hall, catching her colleague just as he was about to slip out the door.  
  
Peter Green was not fooled. The woman wanted something, and the cajoling tone she was using was only her first tactic. She'd been his mentor when he was just starting out, and he could never show her enough appreciation for all the help she'd given him, but he'd only been on-call for one day, and it had turned into an eighteen-hour shift already. He'd never go back on his word, but he couldn't believe he had agreed to a month of this, even if her husband had cleared him of a murder charge during his internship.  
  
"What do you want Maribeth?"  
  
Maribeth pretended to pout. "What makes you think I want anything?"  
  
He just continued to stare at her expectantly.  
  
"Damn! How come I can never pull off the puppy-dog look?"  
  
Peter finally laughed. "I told you before. You're too businesslike and efficient. When you try to be pitiful, it's obviously forced. Steven and Jesse get away with it because, well, sometimes they really are pitiful."  
  
"And CJ."  
  
"You said it yourself, once, 'He's just so darned cute.' Now, what do you want?"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, ok, whatever." Just that fast, she was her usual self. "Listen, Steve is going back to half days starting today. He's working eight to noon. I know I just asked you to go on call for me, but now I'm hoping we could switch shifts. If I work eleven to seven, I can catch him before he goes off in the mornings, sleep until time to start dinner, and have some private time with him in the evenings before he goes off to bed and I come into work."  
  
A slow, very sleepy grin spread across Peter's face. "Ok, if . . . "  
  
"If?"  
  
"If you get someone to take the eight-to-four shift and go on-call Monday, Wednesday, and Friday until noon."  
  
Maribeth gave it some thought.  
  
"Steve will be working or sleeping anyway," Peter encouraged, "I can work three to eleven and still catch some sleep three days a week."  
  
"Ok," she nodded, extending a hand. "It's a deal." As she walked away, Peter heard her muttering to herself, "Johnson likes working days. He'll go for it."  
  
  
  
Charles Donovan and 'Fredo Cioffi had been listening to audio recordings for about four hours when they realized that their ears were starting to ache from the headphones. That's when they decided to switch to videos for a while. Neither of them figured it would matter much which they dealt with first, so long as everything was eventually catalogued.  
  
It just so happened they were wrong. The first video they put in the machine was important. 'Fredo had noticed it was out of sequence and had speculated that perhaps Gorini had been planning to use it against someone soon. Now, though, had anyone asked him, he would have suggested it was simply Gorini's favorite movie.  
  
For the past ten minutes, he and Donovan had been sitting on the edge of the bed, watching open-mouthed and dumbfounded, as Leigh Ann Bergman did things to Roger Gorini that neither of the naïve young cops would ever have enough experience to imagine.  
  
The rookies were still lost in their bizarre little world when Steve, Ron, and Keith walked into the apartment to check on their progress. They took one look at the thunderstruck young men, and then shared a knowing glance with one another. Having over a hundred years of law enforcement experience among them, the three veteran cops had probably seen it all, but they were not yet so jaded that they had forgotten what it was like to see some things for the first time.  
  
With a wink, Keith jerked his head in the direction of the fresh-faced kids and indicated to Steve that he should remain quiet for now.  
  
"Hoooo-weeee," Keith gasped softly as he and his companions came to stand near the boys. "I wouldn't have guessed she was that. . . creative."  
  
"No, sirrrr. And flexible, too," Donovan slurred, completely absorbed.  
  
The three older men worked hard to stifle laughter.  
  
"Do you think I could get a copy to show my wife?" Ron asked, grinning openly as the two innocents still had their eyes glued to the television. "Sometimes we get a little tired of the same old same old."  
  
"Yesssss, sirrrr," Cioffi said, Donovan nodding vacantly beside him.  
  
"You can take care of that *after* you have catalogued everything and filed your reports, officers!" Steve barked, stepping between them and the TV.  
  
At the sight and sound of the Chief, Donovan jumped about three feet in the air and Cioffi fell off the edge of the bed to the floor. As they both scrambled for the remote to shut the VCR down, Donovan kicked it under the bed, and because he was already on the floor, Cioffi began to crawl after it, but Keith called, "Ten Hut!" and Donovan yanked Cioffi back out from under the bed by the legs. Both of them came to immediate attention before the Chief and stood there, blushing crimson and trying not to shake as they awaited the well-deserved dressing-down they knew was coming.  
  
The two officers were still so green and fresh from the academy that all the proper protocols coursed through their veins like blood, which was a good thing in Steve's opinion, because rookies lacked the experience to know when it was worth the risk to violate procedure. Unfortunately, now they were left with no way to turn the TV off unless they walked away from the Chief, and that was something procedure and protocol would never let them do until they were dismissed.  
  
As he assessed the situation, Steve noted that Donovan had a bit more self- control than his friend. He stood ramrod-straight, staring directly ahead while Cioffi's eyes kept wandering to the TV and then snapping back. Knowing he would never get their attention with it on, struggling to keep a straight face while Ron and Keith stood behind the two young men grinning like idiots, and finding himself distracted by the very vocal stars of the home made porn flick playing behind him, he commanded, "Officer Cioffi, turn that damned thing off!"  
  
Cioffi jumped slightly. "Yessir!" Then he scurried past Steve and soon the room was silent.  
  
Steve could tell the moment Cioffi turned around, because Ron and Keith went suddenly stone-faced. Cioffi fell in beside his friend again, Steve told them, "At ease," and they both relaxed somewhat.  
  
"Donovan, report," Steve said.  
  
Donovan began by telling him how many tapes they had found, how they were organized, and how he and Cioffi had divided them up. Then he listed the various cases that could be closed with the information on the tapes, the others that would have to be opened, and in some instances, the specific evidence presented. At Steve's request, Cioffi gave a similar rundown of what he had done and found, and ended with, " . . . and the headphones were hurting our ears, so we decided to watch the videos for a while. This one was out of sequence, so I imagine he was either planning to use it soon or he just enjoyed watching it."  
  
Ron suddenly had a violent coughing fit that nicely covered the laughter he could not prevent, and as Keith turned to slap his back, Steve could see his shoulders shaking with the effort of silencing his own amusement. Knowing he could not hold out much longer, Steve said, "Very good, gentlemen. Take an hour for lunch, then get back to work. Dismissed."  
  
He waited until they were at the door to the apartment before calling, "Oh, and officers. . . " The two young men turned to look at him. "If either of you find this sort of thing is more to your liking, I would be happy to arrange a transfer to vice."  
  
Cioffi's eyes grew round, and Donovan blushed to the roots of his hair. "N- no, no thank you, sir," they answered almost in unison.  
  
"Ok. Let me know if you change your minds. Dismissed."  
  
The two young men scrambled away, and no one heard 'Fredo ask Charles, "What did you do with that tape of the Chief talking to Dr. Travis and Dr. Bentley-Wagner?"  
  
"Shut up, 'Fredo," was all Donovan would say.  
  
As soon as he was sure the green young officers were out of earshot, Steve sat on the edge of bed laughing so hard he could barely breathe. The diodes on the glove were all shining bright green.  
  
  
  
". . . and then I offered to transfer them to vice," Steve said.  
  
Olivia gasped, "Steve!" but she was in the minority. Keith was grinning wildly; Mark, and Steven, who had finished early at the hospital, were laughing and breathless.  
  
"Come on, O, don't be such a prude. If you had seen them, you would have teased them, too."  
  
She gave it some thought, and reluctantly nodded her agreement.  
  
The five of them had just finished a late lunch, and as they cleared the table, they discussed plans for the afternoon. Steve and Steven were going to shoot some baskets, and Mark was planning to enjoy the afternoon sun while he read some more in his latest book. Keith was going back to Brentwood to help with more security measures for the trial. They were developing alternate scenarios for moving Emily and Moretti from the courthouse, and they had only two more days of planning before they actually practiced the various assault and defense plans at the courthouse.  
  
"Well," Liv said, "I guess I'll join you out on the deck, then, Mark. I'm in the middle of a long letter home, and I'd like to finish it so I can send it off in the morning mail."  
  
"Ok, sweetie," Mark said amiably, "I'd enjoy the company."  
  
Steven turned in shock. "You still send letters in the mail?"  
  
Liv smiled indulgently. "Yes."  
  
"Why?" The young man couldn't recall the last time he had received a letter or greeting in the U.S. mail. "E-mail is quicker, more reliable, and it's free."  
  
"I know," Liv agreed, "and it has all the permanence of a sneeze." She shook her head and made a face. Then she got a wistful look. "A real letter is a memento. It can be kept and treasured and handed down and held, perfumed and sealed with a kiss and stained with tears. It is real and tangible, not just a bunch of ones and zeroes in binary code slinging about in the ether."  
  
"It's clutter," the young man said.  
  
Mark sighed and said sadly, "Kids these days, they don't understand."  
  
Smiling affectionately at his dad, the packrat, Steve asked in disbelief, "Liv, what have you found worth writing home about?"  
  
"Well, the search for Em, obviously." She used a voice that said, 'Duh!'  
  
"I know that," Steve replied, mimicking her tone, "but what else?"  
  
"Oh, lots of things. How good it has been to see you all again, despite the circumstances, how kind everyone has been, Maribeth especially, for letting us stay here."  
  
Steve raised an eyebrow at that. For a while, his wife had been anything but kind to Olivia, but, Liv being Liv, she had overlooked the slights and jibes and hurtful comments as easily as she was now ignoring Steve's dubious expression.  
  
"I've told them all how balmy the weather here seems compared to Pennsylvania," she continued blithely, "and what fine men CJ and Dion have become, and how much Steven looks like you. I told them to tell Davis about the glove and how effective it's been in monitoring your stress levels, just everything that's been happening, I guess."  
  
"Everything?" Steve asked, suddenly worried.  
  
"Yes, why?" Then, almost as if she had read his mind, she said, "Yes, I told them about your attempt to move out. No, I didn't mention the exploding duffel bag or its contents, I just didn't know quite what to say about that." Then she started to giggle.  
  
Keith and Mark laughed and Steven just looked confused. Steve breathed a big sigh of relief and said, "Thank you, Liv."  
  
Looking at his dad, Steven said, "You tried to move out? When? And what does she mean, 'the exploding duffel bag'? What was in it?"  
  
"Never mind," Steve and Liv said in unison, but while her voice was full of good humor, Steve had practically growled the words. He noticed the diodes on the glove had gone to amber, and took a couple deep breaths to calm himself.  
  
Olivia laughed then. "You know, I even wrote them about dinner last night. It's been years since I've sat down with such a large group just to have dinner, and it was wonderful."  
  
Steve smiled at her, then, and the diodes went to green. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."  
  
Olivia smiled softly back. "I try to enjoy something every day I am alive," she said. "With Emily's situation always there, it's been harder than usual lately, but I have found that if you look for good things in life, they are always there."  
  
"Always?" Steven asked incredulously.  
  
"Always." Liv said with conviction. "It's what keeps me sane."  
  
  
  
Emily rinsed her mouth at the bathroom sink after she finished throwing up. The beef and veggie kebobs Moretti had made on the hibachi had been wonderful, but they'd only stayed down about half an hour. She was glad he was working out in the garage. She wouldn't have wanted to hurt his feelings. Whatever she had, it was wiping her out. She felt so damned weak she just wanted to crawl into bed until the trial. After taking a couple of Advil for her backache, she went shakily to her bedroom and put her running shoes on again. She wanted to keep up appearances for Moretti's sake. He needed to know she was still able to look out for him.  
  
She could almost remember her mother's illness from many years ago, and for some reason she thought it had started with a severe backache and nausea, but she had just had her physical for the LAPD six weeks ago, and she couldn't believe Steven would have missed a cancerous tumor. She was shaky, sweaty, and running a fever, too, and she didn't recall her mother exhibiting any of those symptoms until she started chemo. She took a deep breath and straightened slowly, wincing as her back protested. Sixty-eight hours, she thought. If she could make it another sixty-eight hours, everything would be ok.  
  
  
  
As he stepped out of the beach house, finally ready to head off again, Keith heard the distinctive thwap-thwap of a basketball hitting the pavement followed by a groan and some laughter. Steve and his son were shooting hoops. Keith gravitated toward the sound, and suddenly found himself missing his daughter terribly.  
  
Emmy had been a daddy's girl since the day she was born. Even as an infant, she had never cried in Keith's arms, and as she got older, he would take her out to shoot hoops and discuss important things. When she couldn't get a date to the eighth grade dance 'because she was a geek', they had talked about what boys her age liked, and they had decided together that if she had to pretend to be dumb to get a boy to like her, then he probably wasn't worth the effort. They had also agreed that maybe she needed to be a better listener if she wanted more friends.  
  
Sometimes, their conversations were far from the typical father-daughter discussions. When Em was in her early teens, he had to explain to her while playing HORSE what could happen if she didn't stop hacking into government computer systems. Years later, during a very physical game of one-on-one, he'd had to convince her that it wasn't her fault the U.S. government had used her research to produce weapons of mass destruction which it sold to allies who used them to commit genocide. Under the hoop, he had tried to convince her to be more patient and understanding with O, and from the free-throw line, he had told her how proud he was that she had decided to become a cop.  
  
The easy give and take as they played a game of half-court one-on-one or HORSE had always left Keith feeling closer to his daughter, more in touch with her. It was something they could fully share. He didn't have to be a genius to read her strategy, and with the improvements Olivia had made on his prosthetics over the years, he was physically able to keep up with her. Even now, the thwap-thwap of a bouncing basketball could instantly take him back to a time when life with Emily had been innocent, when she had been naïve about her unique gifts and how people would try to use her, and all her mischief had been just for fun.  
  
Checking his watch, Keith decided he had just enough time to shoot a few baskets before he needed to be back in Brentwood. Maybe it would put him in a better frame of mind before he went back to work with the taskforce and help him channel his worry over 'what if's' in to positive action instead of paralyzing fear. He grimaced at that thought, knowing well how, with his high-tech prosthetic legs, for him, extreme fear, (and anger, stress, grief, and illness) could, quite literally, become paralyzing.  
  
As he came around the end of the hedge, he saw Steve was in a hopeless position. His son was a good six inches taller and had a wingspan like a pterodactyl. Steve was trapped in a corner of the court and there was no way for him to move or shoot without fouling Steven or losing possession of the ball.  
  
"Beach bum," Keith called, "Over here," and he held his hands up, ready for the ball.  
  
First Steve glared at the epithet Keith used against him years ago, but then he grinned, faked right, and passed the ball to Keith on his left. Steven was so caught off guard by the sudden two-on-one, all he could manage to do was turn around and watch in confusion as Keith took the ball right up the center and made a lay up for two.  
  
"No fair!" Steven complained as he got the rebound and took it out from under the basket.  
  
"Kid," Keith told him, "you're less than half my age, your dad's even older than I am. . . "  
  
"Oh, thanks," Steve muttered as Keith continued talking.  
  
". . . from what I hear, he's been shot more often than his own police weapon, and I have no legs. What are you whining about?"  
  
Steve moved in on the other side of his son to help Keith guard him.  
  
Steven just laughed. What Keith had said was true, and he couldn't deny a word of it. "You still have the advantage of me, though, and you know it."  
  
"Well, then, son, you'll just have to play a little harder," Steve teased, "or don't you think you're up to a challenge from a couple of old men?"  
  
"Speak for yourself," Keith told him.  
  
"You really want me to play a little harder dad?"  
  
"Yeah. Come on, boy, show us what you got."  
  
"Ok, you asked for it."  
  
Steve and Keith had been guarding him closely, and Steven thought, age having decreased their agility, being too close to him could be almost as bad as being too far away. He dribbled the ball lazily toward the basket for a few moments, deciding how to turn the situation to his advantage, then turned to his left toward his dad fast. Just as he anticipated, Keith followed him around, and now both of them were in front of him. Before Keith could stop his sideways motion, Steven spun back around to the right and went straight for the basket.  
  
As Steven went jogging easily down the court, his dad took off after him. Unfortunately, Keith hadn't quite got where he was going yet, and as he ran after his son, Steve tripped over his teammate's foot and both men fell. Oblivious to the minor collision behind him, Steven just continued to the basket. He had never mastered the knack of the three-pointer, but he could dunk, and by the time he made the shot and recovered his own rebound, his father and Keith were tangled in a heap on the ground.  
  
"Guys?" He cringed at what he saw. Both of the older men were clearly in pain and embarrassed. "Gee, I'm sorry. What happened?"  
  
"He was in my way," Steve grumbled.  
  
"He ran me down," Keith growled.  
  
Steven laughed as he helped them up, satisfied now that the worst injury had been to their pride.  
  
"It's your ball," Steven said, as he bounced it between them and backed off. "Try to stay out of each other's way this time."  
  
He laughed again, knowing he would not be repeating what they said to him after that.  
  
  
  
"Ok," Steve said, pointing to the map. "We'll have units stationed here, here, and here. Keith, you and I will be in the chopper, and Ron will be in the security office watching on the closed circuit TV. Then, when the motorcade gets to the first checkpoint and splits up, Cheryl and Al will head out with Emily and Moretti in separate cars."  
  
Mark and Ron had called in a few favors and arranged a planned visit from a mid-level Chinese government functionary from their Foreign Trade Ministry so that Steve could dispatch Leigh Ann to take care of the necessary security arrangements. Now, the task force had had the whole morning to finalize their plans before the practice runs tomorrow. Only Steve, Mark, Ron, and the Minister of Trade himself knew the visit would be cancelled soon after Moretti was safely in hiding.  
  
"I still wish I could ride along with her," Keith said.  
  
"I know, pal, but we both know why that won't work."  
  
Keith just nodded.  
  
Steve had discussed the possibility of Keith participating in his daughter's escort with Keith privately the previous night, and Keith had explained how his computerized prosthetics could become a liability if there were any problems.  
  
"Now, we will have medical personnel and an ambulance standing by at the courthouse, just in case," Steve continued, looking at the four paramedics Jesse had recommended for the detail, and added, "the chopper will also be fully equipped, right?"  
  
"Yes, sir," answered one of the men who would be riding along with him and Keith.  
  
"Ok, then," Steve said, looking at his watch and seeing to his dismay that it was just past noon, "I have to be going now." He turned to Cheryl and Ron and said, "I leave things in your capable hands. We meet tomorrow at eight at the Federal Building on Spring Street."  
  
"Ok," Cheryl said. "We've had a busy morning, and we're in the home stretch, now. Lets break for lunch. We'll all meet back here at one."  
  
  
  
Keith sighed as he left the table, Mark was a great cook, and his grilled steaks, baked potatoes and coleslaw had fortified Keith to go back to the taskforce for the afternoon. Ron was right in what he said yesterday, it *was* good to have Steve Sloan back in charge. Ron and Cheryl had shared command well while Steve was off, but a couple of times, through miscommunication, they had issued conflicting orders, and since it was a universal truth that local cops were wary of Feds, more often than not, the men had bristled slightly at Ron's instructions. With Steve back, even on half days, Ron and Cheryl were no longer commanding, but advising, and ultimately, all the orders for the LAPD officers came from their Chief.  
  
Steve's authoritative presence had eased a lot of hidden tension on the taskforce, and things were already proceeding more smoothly, but what comforted Keith most was the fact that Steve, of all the cops working to get Emmy and Moretti back safely, seemed to have a vested interest in the operation. For some inexplicable reason, Steve apparently believed he had a personal stake in Emmy's welfare, and while his former relationship to Olivia might explain some of it, Keith thought Steve's concern went deeper. He knew Steve hadn't had the time to get to know his daughter well before she went underground, but he couldn't shake the impression that he genuinely cared for her.  
  
Keith gave his wife a peck on the cheek and then got out of the way so she and Mark could begin clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. By now, Steven and Steve were out shooting hoops just as they had done yesterday, and Maribeth was still asleep. Keith felt like a stranger, a visitor to their lives, as he prepared to head off yet again. The task force was still cataloging the evidence gathered from Gorini's warehouse, and he had been asked to help find the whereabouts of various people who had been caught on tape so that the FBI and the LAPD could monitor their movements the day of the trial and make sure they were staying well clear of Emmy and Moretti. Since anybody on those tapes was a potential blackmail victim, it was conceivable that any one of them could be coerced into attempting a hit, and Steve had decided it would be best to know where they were the day of the trial. So, as everyone else at the beach house was settling in for a lazy afternoon, he was off to work another four to six hours.  
  
Keith didn't begrudge the others their leisure. At his age, Mark deserved all the down time he could stand, and Keith knew O couldn't handle the stress of working with the task force any more. He knew she'd been sleeping poorly, her worries and fears keeping her up nights, and he was grateful that her friends could help take her mind off things. Steve's health was still more fragile than the older man would like to admit, and so Keith didn't mind his taking the afternoons off, and he knew both Maribeth and Steven would be going in to work later when he had the time to take it easy. Still, to be the only one heading off to the daily grind while the others got some much deserved R & R left him feeling a bit put out. The one thing that eased his displeasure was the knowledge that he was doing something to help his daughter.  
  
As he stopped in the guestroom to brush his teeth before leaving, Keith could hear Maribeth snoring through the wall and had to wonder again, how Steve had managed to sleep through the racket for thirty years. He was glad for Steve that his wife and son had been able to change their schedules to spend more time with him. Steven was now working a split shift, four hours in the morning while his dad was at work and four hours in the evening before his mom headed off for the eleven-to-seven shift. It was a tough day, but the young Dr. Sloan could handle it, and it allowed him time with his mother and father together and with each of them separately. Maribeth would be up in time to help with dinner and then spend time with her husband before she headed off to work. Added to their schedules, his own comings and goings made for a complicated household, but at least so far, everyone had managed to get together at least once a day.  
  
Keith left the beach house intent on getting back to the taskforce, but the thwap-thwap of the basketball distracted him as it had the other day. Remembering how much better he'd felt after their little game of two on one the previous day, he headed toward the garage, intending to shoot just a couple of baskets with Steve and Steven before he left. He stopped as he approached the bushes, though, when he heard the younger Sloan say, "Your ball, Dad." Then, "What's the deal with you and Keith and Liv?"  
  
Keith froze, wondering himself how Steve would answer that question.  
  
"What do you mean, son?"  
  
'Good stall,' thought Keith. 'Buy some thinking time.'  
  
"Well," Steven said, "there are some rumors at the hospital that you and she had an affair and almost got married. I've also heard mention that she saved your life, and well, Uncle Jesse told me you saved hers, too. I was wondering, which of the stories are true?"  
  
For a long time, all Keith heard was the lazy thwap-thwap of the basketball. Finally, Steve answered.  
  
"All of them, probably, and then some."  
  
Keith was surprised, wondering just what the rumors were and how much more Steve and Olivia had shared if they were all true. There was a long silence again, broken only by the sound of Steve bouncing the basketball.  
  
"Dad?" Steven finally prompted.  
  
Keith heard a huge sigh. "Well, for one thing, it wasn't an affair." Steve said, "She was. . . my soul mate, at least for a while. We were practically living together for two months."  
  
Keith had once suggested he and O move in together, but she would have none of it. She told him it was a sin. In fact, the first time they made love, right after they were engaged, she'd run from him crying, saying she had disgraced herself, and that they should have waited. Suddenly the sensations from his left foot went numb. He shifted his weight and shook it and soon the feeling returned.  
  
"When I wasn't staying at her place, she was sleeping in the guest room here."  
  
"Why didn't she just stay with you in the apartment?" Steven asked.  
  
Keith was annoyed to hear Steve chuckle and say, "She couldn't bring herself to do that. Not as long as we weren't married."  
  
"Huh? You mean you practically lived together, you spent the night at her place, and you didn't do anything?"  
  
Keith was shocked by Steven's question, though he had to admit, Emily would have no compunction about asking the same thing. He couldn't imagine how awkward Steve felt, but he continued to listen, curious about that time in his wife's life that another man had shared with her.  
  
"Oh, uh, we did. . . things," Steve stammered, "just, um, not under your granddad's roof."  
  
"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh," Steven said knowingly.  
  
"Now, don't get that idea," Steve snapped. "At the time, we thought we would be together forever."  
  
Keith was no fool. He knew Steve and Olivia had made love, but it angered him to hear Steve talking about it in the driveway under the basketball hoop. It should be a private thing. Even after thirty years, a gentleman should never kiss and tell. O had never given any details, but she did tell Keith it happened a number of times and Steve had always been good to her. His foot went numb again, and this time, shaking it didn't bring back the feeling.  
  
"So, what happened, Dad?"  
  
The basketball started bouncing again. Finally, Steve continued.  
  
"Son, there's a lot of history here you know nothing about. I. . . I'm willing to tell you, but you have to understand, it all happened before I met your mom, ok?"  
  
"Ok, Dad, I can go with that."  
  
Keith listened, his mood growing darker all the while, as Steve told his son about Olivia's past, and he was shocked to hear the things his wife had shared with this Hollywood cop that she had never once mentioned to him. He'd never known her granddad had beaten her. He'd noticed the scars on her back and her belly, but when he asked, she'd just shrugged and told him they were the result of a childhood accident.  
  
Though Keith knew about the fire that killed her family, O had never spoken to him about the day she'd come upon her home in ashes, the body bags lined up beside the moving truck, one of them waiting for her. He couldn't imagine the guilt she felt that they were only there because her family was waiting for her to come home from camp before they moved to the house old man Bradley had left them. And he simply couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she had actually tried to crawl into the empty body bag.  
  
And he couldn't believe she'd never told him. Now both his legs ached.  
  
As Steve went on to tell his son about the first time Ted attacked, Keith was horrified to learn that his former best friend had tried to rape Olivia. For months after the terrible day when he'd been crippled, he'd been so wrapped up in pain and self-pity over the loss of his legs and his career that he hadn't given a thought to anything else except the shame that a tiny slip of a woman had been the one to save him. Even at the trial, he'd merely made his appearance, testified, and left. He'd never cared to hear O's story.  
  
Still, he was furious that she had never told him. The pins and needles started, working their way up from his feet to his knees.  
  
"Wow, she had a rough life, didn't she?"  
  
"Yeah, son, and I don't think it ever got much easier."  
  
Keith's heart sank, and his legs continued to sting. Her life had been with him for the last thirty years, and there had been lots of hard times, but he always thought there had been plenty of good times, too. He knew O had agreed to let Steve read her letters, letters that Keith had never been invited to see, even when she'd written them about him. Now, he wondered just what was in those letters that led Steve to believe her life over the past thirty years had been one of enduring hardship. 'If she was so miserable,' he thought in a fury, 'why didn't she just say so. There are thousands of divorce attorneys in the world.'  
  
Then Steve went on to talk about what Olivia had done for him when he was shot.  
  
"She did save my life, son," Steve said, "It would have killed me to have to leave the force then. I'm only walking now because of her. She was there when I needed her, and she was able to do what needed to be done. At the time, she was probably the only surgeon in the country with the skills and knowledge to save my legs."  
  
Keith felt his chest tighten as he suddenly, for the very first time, realized that O had done for Steve Sloan what she hadn't been able to do for him. Before he could decide how he felt about that, Steve had moved on in his story, and whatever the emotion was that had been bubbling to the surface, it just settled in beside his growing rage. The pins and needles had turned to a fiery pain.  
  
Father and son both had a good laugh as Steve told how Olivia had given him a lesson in self-defense, and then, to Keith's great embarrassment and growing temper, Steve haltingly told his son about his first time with O. He didn't give many details, but even the most unimaginative person could fill in the blanks.  
  
". . . and when I finally let her see. . . all of my scars, son, well, she touched them all. Kissed them, actually, and told me why I shouldn't be ashamed."  
  
Keith was mortified to hear Steve discuss such intimate matters with his son, but his embarrassment never extended to the fact that he was eavesdropping on an intensely private discussion. If he could see the father and son, he would have realized that their close bond allowed for this sort of conversation without any sense of shame. Unfortunately, as he was lurking behind the bushes, all he could do was listen to the lurid details, filtered through his suddenly foul mood, and imagine the old man, bragging like a satyr, as he preened before an awestruck protégé.  
  
"I still remember what she told me," Steve said. "That night she said, 'Nothing is ugly when seen through the eyes of love.' I didn't believe her. . . until she actually held me close to her. I'd been so sure she'd turn away."  
  
"She really loved you, didn't she, dad?"  
  
Keith could hear the gloating smile when Steve said, "Yeah, son, she did, and I loved her, too."  
  
Keith couldn't help but remember that O had run away from him after she'd hacked off his legs, and yet she'd held Steve close. True, he had canceled their engagement, but she'd stayed away from him for twelve years before she came home with the beach bum she had made love to, the one whose scars she had touched. Never once had she told him the loss of his legs didn't matter, in fact, she had spent their entire marriage trying to make his prosthetics more realistic, once even going so far as to suggest that they try to use genetically engineered tissues to regenerate flesh and blood limbs for him. Now he was learning that the first time she was with Sloan she had assured him that his flaws didn't bother her. Keith had a sudden, fierce pain in both legs that left him gasping quietly for air, and then nothing. It felt as if he were once again wearing the old fiberglass models he had started with over forty years ago.  
  
Keith wanted desperately to leave, but with his legs gone dead, he was rooted to the spot. The only way he could move now would be to call for help, and he couldn't do that. So, he was forced to listen, as Steve recounted for his son all the wonders he and O had shared.  
  
"If it hadn't been for that, I never would have had the courage to ask your mother out. I'd have been too self-conscious, and I would have drawn into myself and hidden for the rest of my life, I think."  
  
O had only known Steve a few months, and yet when he was feeling unsure of himself, she had built him up. She had known Keith since childhood, and yet, when he was utterly shattered, his life in ruins, she had run away. A new pain started now, this time in his chest, but he ignored it. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, and would have gone after Sloan had he not been stuck to the spot by his malfunctioning legs.  
  
Steve told how Ted had broken out of prison again and gone after him and Olivia. He gave a brief account of how, despite a concussion and a sliced open palm, he had managed to finally stop Ted and save Olivia. He even played up the tragedy of it all for his son by telling him how valiantly O had fought back and confessing his horror when he realized he had shot her, too. The man was so sickeningly, modestly proud of himself Keith thought he was going to puke.  
  
"Wow. After all that, why didn't you marry her, Dad?" Steven asked.  
  
'Why indeed?' Keith wondered.  
  
There was another long pause, before Steve finally said, "That's kind of complicated."  
  
'Do tell,' Keith thought bitterly.  
  
"Please tell me, Dad."  
  
"Well, I started having doubts when I watched Liv and Keith consoling Ted as he died. They both told him they forgave him, and they meant it, son." Steve paused for thought. "To this day, I don't know how they did it, but they really, truly forgave that. . . that sick son of a bitch. . . for what he did. That's when I knew Keith was a better man than I am."  
  
Now Keith knew what shame really was. He felt horrified by himself, by his thoughts.  
  
"Dad. . . "  
  
"No, son," Steve interrupted as his son sought to reassure him. "At the time your granddad tried to convince me that I was good enough for Liv, and he did for a while, but now I know better, and it doesn't bother me so much. I know I'm not the scum of the earth, but Keith, he really has a good, forgiving heart, and Liv is sweet and pure."  
  
"And is that why you didn't marry her?"  
  
"Well, no, not really. Like I said, your granddad managed to convince me for a while that I was as good a man as Keith, but the night of the rehearsal dinner, Keith made a very touching toast to Liv and me, and when it was over, he slipped out. Olivia followed him, and I followed her."  
  
Keith remembered that evening. He and Olivia had sat out in the cold discussing what might have been. They hadn't known until the next day that Steve had been there.  
  
"I overheard them talking," Steve said, "I probably shouldn't have been eavesdropping. . . "  
  
Keith felt another flash of deep shame.  
  
". . . but now I'm glad I did. I learned that until six weeks before our wedding, she'd have left me for him. All he would have had to do was ask."  
  
"Wait, Dad, your wedding?"  
  
Keith heard Steve laugh. "Yes, son, our wedding. I didn't exactly leave her at the altar, but when the minister said, 'let him speak now, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace,' I said, 'Wait'."  
  
"No way," Steven gasped.  
  
"Oh, yes. I took Liv and Keith outside, and I gave her a choice. She chose him."  
  
Keith felt the pain in his chest fade, and a deep pleasant warmth flushed through him, right down to his toes. She *had* chosen him, hadn't she? And didn't that matter more than anything? Quietly, he turned around and headed for the car. All that mattered was that O had chosen him. Everything else was incidental. It didn't matter what Steve and his son discussed. Olivia was his wife, and had been for thirty years, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, all of which they had shared in abundance.  
  
"I can't believe that, Dad," Steven said.  
  
"Neither could I. . . " Steve admitted.  
  
Suddenly, his legs screaming with pain, Keith was enraged again, at himself for his stupidity and for listening to the private conversation and at the beach bum for his false modesty and very real arrogance and smugness. A tiny, rational part of his brain kept him moving, limping to his car so he could drive off to Brentwood before he beat the hell out of the Deputy Chief of Police.  
  
Unfortunately, he never heard Steve say, ". . . but I think it was the best decision she could have ever made. They've had some difficult times, but he was there for her. Even with her daughter missing, she is happier with him now than she ever was with me, happier than she ever could have been."  
  
"And you have Mom," Steven added.  
  
"Yes, I have your mother, and you, and I have never missed Olivia since. I'm glad to see her again, son, but I don't need her like I did then. You and your mom filled up all the empty spaces inside me a long, long time ago."  
  
  
  
  
  
"Hey, kid, we goin' runnin' tonight?"  
  
Emily looked at her dinner apathetically. "Don't think so, Moretti."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Because I feel like something someone has just scraped off the bottom of his shoe," she said miserably, "and I'm really not up for it."  
  
"Oh, ok. Then I'll go on my own."  
  
"No!" she snapped, "It's not safe for you on your own."  
  
His face fell. "I just need to get some exercise," he said. "I'm sick of being cooped up like this."  
  
Em smiled weakly. Since he'd made it to the top of the hill, Moretti had been looking forward to their morning and evening runs. She was amazed at the change that had taken place in him, and was loath to disappoint him now. He was just getting into this new healthy lifestyle, and he needed all the support he could get.  
  
"Tell you what," she said, hoping to placate him, "we will walk to the top of the hill and back, then I am going to go to bed."  
  
Finally, Moretti noticed she was ill. "You sure, Em? You don't look so good."  
  
"I'll be fine." She waved him off as he started fussing over her. "I just have a case of the creeping ick."  
  
"Feverish and nauseous?" Moretti asked.  
  
She nodded.  
  
"Achy?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"That's the crawling crud," he corrected her.  
  
"Thank you Dr. Moretti," she teased. "Get my shoes for me, will ya?"  
  
'Thirty-six hours to go,' she told herself, looking at the kitchen clock. 'Lord, give me strength.'  
  
  
  
"Tell me again," Keith demanded.  
  
It was ten o'clock, and he was still haranguing the taskforce. He'd only taken one break that afternoon, and he hadn't once let up with his pissy mood and attitude. Once he'd finished locating the people on the tapes, he'd insisted they review all the plans for transporting Emily and Moretti again. Everyone had been humoring him, because though he'd been pleasant and cheerful before lunch, they figured he was finally feeling the pressure of knowing how close they were to the trial. Cioffi and Donovan, who thought they were the only ones who knew about his prosthetic legs, had noticed he was limping more than usual, too.  
  
"Look, Keith," Ron said, "we're all tired, and this will all make a lot more sense when we do our practice runs tomorrow. I suggest we just go home now and sleep on it."  
  
The others nodded in agreement and started to get up from the table.  
  
"Listen, dammit," Keith snapped, and they all sighed and sat down. "My kid, my only kid, has been calling the shots since she disappeared with this mafia thug. Why? Because you people don't know which of your own can be trusted and which are waiting to blow her away. Three of you," he looked accusingly at Charles Donovan and Alfredo Cioffi who cowered under his glare, "including Steve Sloan, have been close enough to speak to her personally, and haven't been able to offer her any help. In the past week alone, she has handed you five dirty cops, six low level mobsters, including Joey Russo, who happened to be a goldmine, and a spy in Chief Sloan's private office."  
  
All were relieved that Leigh Ann had left, for there was no telling what this worried, angry father might say in his present mood.  
  
"Look, Keith," Cheryl tried to calm him.  
  
"Oh, shut up!"  
  
She did. Maybe he just needed to be heard.  
  
"She did all this by knowingly and willingly walking into two ambushes for you people. At the second one, she even left the bad guys tied up in a bow for you with a note telling you what to hold them on so they didn't disappear before you incompetents could find some reason charge them."  
  
"We do realize that, Keith," Al Cioffi said, "and I will be recommending her for commendation when this is all over."  
  
"Stick your commendation where the sun don't shine, Al. I really don't give a damn about a medal, and if we don't get this just right, the only place she'll be wearing that scrap of ribbon Sloan pins on her dress uniform will be to her own funeral. I am worried about my daughter's life."  
  
"We know that, sir, we are too, that's why we need to be fresh for the practice runs tomorrow. . . "  
  
Keith didn't have to blast Charles Donovan to shut him up. A withering glare and the young man's argument ground to a halt.  
  
"You people," he glared at everyone in turn, "don't know your asses from a hole in the ground, and, God Almighty, I don't know why, but my Emmy is trusting the lot of you to watch her back, so, we are going to stay here and go over these plans until I am convinced you can do just that."  
  
This time, Ron stood up as he spoke, and the rest followed his lead. "Well, we're just gonna have to convince you in the morning, Keith, because I am officially calling it a day." Keith started to speak again, but Ron silenced him by simply saying, "Now," and turning his back.  
  
As the meeting broke up, Keith sat there fuming because his legs had failed him, and he was unable to stand up and storm off in a red-hot rage.  
  
  
  
"It's about damned time you got rid of her," Keith grumbled as Leigh Ann left the security office to run the errands Steve had manufactured for her. "We need to be practicing the real plans, not the crap we devised for her benefit."  
  
Steve simply raised an eyebrow at the worried man. The trial was just twenty-four hours away, now, and he could forgive Keith his foul temper. As usually happened in similar situations, after a tearful, joyous reunion with Emily, he would probably approach Steve apologetically and thank him for getting her back safely.  
  
When confirmation came that Leigh Ann had indeed left the courthouse, Steve gave the order to put the first of their plans in action. With two trusted officers from Cheryl's division playing the parts of Emily and Moretti, they watched the operation on the closed circuit televisions in the security office, and he and Keith each made copious notes about gaps in coverage and slow transitions from one protected area to another. They ran the primary escape route from the courthouse to the attached parking deck five times before both men were satisfied that it was flawless. Then they did the same with each of their alternative plans.  
  
They broke for lunch at noon, and Steve reluctantly left Cheryl in charge of running the transfer plans from the parking garage to the police station and from the police station to the various safe houses they had gone to great lengths to make absolutely safe this time.  
  
"It's not that I don't trust you," he told her, dragging his feet on the way to his car. After two consecutive days of coming home with Keith on time and with no argument, Maribeth had trusted him to drive himself to and from work. The independence had gone a long way toward improving Steve's mood.  
  
"Yeah, Steve, I know that," she told him sincerely. "You just can't stand being out of the action. So, go home, have lunch, relax, work on your free throws." She winked and said, "I've been talking to Steven. Take it easy for the next few weeks and get back to one hundred percent. Then come back to work and you can be a slave driver again."  
  
Steve laughed and Cheryl grinned as he settled behind the wheel. He had always been a demanding man to work with, but he had always been fair and understanding, too.  
  
"You are missed, my friend," Cheryl assured him, "We won't forget you."  
  
  
  
"Em? How ya feelin'?" Moretti asked as he entered the bedroom with a bowl of steaming chicken soup.  
  
"Lower than worm droppings," she said, eyes still closed. "What time is it?"  
  
"Noon. Ya slept through breakfast and gave me hell when I woke ya for our run, so I figured ya needed your rest."  
  
Her eyes flew open, and she sat half way up before she collapsed back to the bed grimacing in pain. Gasping, she asked, "You didn't go out alone, did you?"  
  
"Hell, no, Em," Moretti assured her. "You've sacrificed too much to keep me alive, kid. I'm not gonna do something stupid like that at this point in the game. I brought ya some lunch."  
  
"What is it?"  
  
"Chicken soup. Good for what ails ya."  
  
She made a face and turned to the wall.  
  
Moretti was concerned. Em's color was off, and she had been sleeping off and on for the past twenty hours. At least twice now, he had heard her puking in the bathroom, too, but what really worried him was the pain in her back. It could be totally unrelated, or it could be part of something worse than anything he was competent to handle. He just didn't have the experience to know. In his business, he'd been required to deal with broken noses, busted knuckles, beatings, and gunshot wounds from time to time, but now he was out of his depth.  
  
"Em?"  
  
"Wha'?"  
  
"I think you need to see a doctor."  
  
"Nah, it's just a virus. I'll see my mama tomorrow. She'll take care of me."  
  
"You sure?"  
  
"Yeah. Would you draw me a good hot bath? I think it might make me feel better."  
  
"Ok."  
  
He left the lunch tray by her bed hoping she would eat some, and then went off to draw her bath.  
  
  
  
Steve had settled comfortably in bed to read more of Liv's letters by nine that night. Maribeth had left for work early as she had a patient who had taken a turn for the worse, and Keith was still at the courthouse making final preparations for tomorrow. Steve had to admit, the guy was one hell of a cop, even after twenty years of retirement. It was a damned shame his injuries had kept him behind a desk for most of his career, and every time Steve noticed him limping, he felt the sad irony that the man's wife had given him the one thing she had not been able to give her own husband--full mobility.  
  
He was almost through the second volume of letters and had just read a joyous account of Emily's final return home and her making peace with her mother, when suddenly, he reached for the other volume and turned back to the letter she had written when Keith had retired. Much of the language was the same. She was 'delighted' and 'overjoyed' to have them close to her again. She was confident that they would 'have a lot of good times in the future' and she was thrilled that they would 'finally have the chance simply to enjoy one another's company again.' Both letters said, 'It's so nice to just *be* together for a change, without the world intruding.'  
  
He closed the first volume, and turned to the next letter in the second book. Emily had entered the police academy, and Liv had started to worry again. Steve felt inexplicably sad for her. Nothing was ever easy in her life.  
  
There was a soft knock at the door, and he closed the book and called, "Come in."  
  
The door opened, and Liv stood there, in a yellow flannel nightgown and robe. Her red hair was pulled back in a loose braid, and he face was shining as if it were freshly scrubbed. She had floppy pink elephant slippers on her feet.  
  
"Hey," he said softly, "how are you doing?"  
  
She put a trembling hand to her forehead, and in a voice choked with tears, said, "I'm just so tired. Mark's already off to bed, Steven was called back into the hospital, Maribeth is at work, and Keith hasn't come home yet."  
  
She sniffed and pressed her knuckles to her mouth for a moment to stifle the threatening sobs, then, as tears spilled over, she folded her arms and continued talking, her gaze focused on the floor.  
  
"I was hoping you wouldn't mind some company. I tried to make an early night of it, but I'm just so scared about tomorrow. Keith's been too busy to talk the past couple of days, and he's been just a mean bastard when we have spoken, so I don't even know what's going on. Oh, God," she gasped. "What if something goes wrong?"  
  
"Olivia," Steve said firmly but gently, "come here."  
  
She stood in the doorway for a moment, struggling to control her emotions, but when she looked up to see her old friend sitting on the edge of his bed with open arms offering to comfort her with a hug, she let it all out and ran to him sobbing. She threw herself against him with such force it knocked him over into the bed. The position was awkward, and his aging back soon began to ache, so he maneuvered her onto the mattress, pulled her slippers off and dropped them to the floor, and drew his legs up to lie comfortably beside her on top of the covers.  
  
"Shh, it's all right sweetheart," Steve soothed. "Nothing will go wrong. They are running scenarios until they can execute them flawlessly. It's all gonna go like clockwork tomorrow. You'll see."  
  
"Really?" she sniffed.  
  
"Really."  
  
"Promise?"  
  
How could he not? "I promise."  
  
She gave him a weak smile and sat up beside him on the bed.  
  
"Can I just sit here a while?"  
  
"Sure." Steve sat up, too.  
  
They sat in silence for a few minutes, both of them leaning against the headboard, before Steve said, "You never told me Emily was arrested during Kenny and Sue's wedding."  
  
Liv shrugged. "It didn't seem relevant."  
  
"It wasn't," Steve told her, "but it's still quite a big deal to leave out."  
  
"I suppose. I was just so furious when it happened. Ken and Sue had been dating fifteen years before they finally got married."  
  
"That long?"  
  
"Yes. They'd hit one pitfall after another, and finally, on the big day, the Feds bust into the church, hold us all at gunpoint." Even now, fifteen years later, Liv was seething mad. "When Jud, Keith, and Kenney tried to resist, they slammed them to the floor so hard it knocked one of Keith's prosthetics off and they busted one of Jud's ribs. One of them stepped on the train of Sue's dress and left a muddy footprint. Emmy was frisked in the aisle, and they hauled her out in cuffs. Of course, Keith and I had to leave the wedding to see about a lawyer and bail and whatnot. I could have strangled Emily. She never made things easy on us."  
  
Steve chuckled. "I bet you wouldn't have her any other way, would you?"  
  
Liv sighed, "No, I wouldn't."  
  
Then she started to hiccup, trying hard to fight off the tears that again threatened to overwhelm. As Steve slipped one arm around her and pulled her close, she lost the battle, and leaned against him sobbing again. He kissed her hair and rocked her gently and kept promising her it would be all right.  
  
  
  
"Hey, Moretti," Emily said, as he flipped channels mindlessly. The bath had made her feel better, and now she was up watching TV with him. They should probably get some sleep, but they were both too wired to rest,  
  
"Wha?"  
  
"You're Catholic, right?"  
  
"Yeah, how'd ya know?"  
  
"Italian. . . Mob. . . It wasn't a stretch," she said with a weak laugh in her voice.  
  
Moretti chuckled with her. "No, I s'pose not. Why you askin'?"  
  
"When's the last time you went to confession?"  
  
Now he laughed bitterly.  
  
"Been over forty years, kid. Before I killed my first man. After that, there didn't seem much point to it."  
  
"Oh, I see. Once there was no going back, that 'Go, and sin no more,' part became a sort of sticking point, didn't it?"  
  
Moretti cast her an angry glance, but when he saw no mischief in her eyes, he realized that he had heard no sarcasm in her voice. She wasn't teasing, just discussing the facts of his wasted life.  
  
His face rumpled into a frown. When had he started to think of his life as wasted? Thinking back, he realized it started the day this amazing kid, with a loving family, friends, and a good job had decided to put her ass on the line for him. She was making a huge sacrifice for him. It was the first time a 'good' person had ever given a damn about him.  
  
"You're a good kid, Em. Your parents must be proud."  
  
Emmy smiled, "I hope so. Now, answer me. Why did you quit going to confession?"  
  
"Like you said, I guess. When you repent, you're supposed to try to stop what you were doin' wrong. After I killed that first guy, I knew I wasn't even gonna try to stop. After that, confession was kinda like lyin' to God."  
  
There was a long pause before Em asked, "So, when the trial is over, and after the LAPD has had their crack at you, do you plan on making a fresh start?"  
  
"Kid, by then I plan on bein' dead."  
  
"No ducking the question, Moretti. I want an answer."  
  
Moretti thought for a long, long time. He'd gotten used to having these kinds of discussions with Emmy, but she always managed to stump him with the simplest questions. Finally, he had an answer.  
  
"If I survive, yeah, I wanna start over. I wanna be someone my kid won't be ashamed of, even if he never meets me. . . even if he never wants to talk to me. I wanna become someone that he won't hate."  
  
Emmy let his words settle for a bit, then she asked, "Tomorrow could get pretty hairy. You wanna go to confession tonight?"  
  
Moretti thought about it, and said, "Yeah, I think so."  
  
Emily just nodded and got up carefully from her chair and headed to the bathroom for some more Advil.  
  
  
  
It was eleven thirty when Keith limped back the hall to the guestroom at the beach house. His legs ached as never before, and he knew it was due to stress. He hadn't been this worried since Emily had contracted the BioGen virus. As one of his old friends after another had succumbed, his little girl had held on, and when others reached a plateau in their recovery, she had continued to fight. It had taken her over a year, but she had made it back to work. The only lingering problem she had was an intolerance for cold. He was sad that she could never safely come home for another Christmas, but his baby was still alive, and that was enough for him.  
  
As he walked past the master bedroom, Keith noticed the door was half open and the light was on, but when he looked in, he saw Steve stretched out asleep on the bed.  
  
'Must have dozed off sooner than he expected,' Keith thought. 'Probably isn't as fully recovered as he thinks he is yet.'  
  
Keith had almost forgiven Steve the cutting comments he had made the other day on the basketball court, and so, he moved into the room to turn the lights off before he pulled the door shut. Then he spotted the pink elephant slippers and the shock of red hair, and for a moment, the world started to spin.  
  
So, that was why O couldn't bear to go back to the house in Brentwood. That was why Steve needed her TLC when Maribeth was at work. Keith felt like such an ass.  
  
He took a step toward the bed, intent on having it out here and now, and gasped in pain as his legs reacted to the emotional overload. Then he shook his head to clear his thoughts.  
  
'One crisis at a time,' he told himself. 'Get Em back first, then deal with this. . . betrayal.'  
  
He crept painfully out of the room and headed off to bed.  
  
  
  
At quarter to twelve, Olivia awoke feeling at ease for the first time since Steve had called her about Emily that early morning, ages ago, it seemed. She was still very tired, but he had promised her it would be ok, and she had always taken him at his word. Now she could go to bed and rest.  
  
She looked at the face of the man sleeping soundly beside her. He still looked so young in his sleep. She kissed the tip of her index finger and pressed it lightly to his cheek, then she whispered a thank you, slipped on her elephant slippers, cut the light, and scurried off to bed, pulling the door shut behind her.  
  
When she got into the guestroom, Keith was already making ready for bed.  
  
"Did you get all the security plans worked out?" Liv asked.  
  
"Yeah," Keith muttered, pulling off his shirt.  
  
"And you're satisfied with what they're doing," she said, as she turned down the covers.  
  
"I suppose."  
  
"Good. If their plans meet with your approval I know they have to be ready for anything."  
  
Keith just grunted, and Olivia figured he was preoccupied with tomorrow.  
  
"So," she continued chatting, as she kicked off her slippers and settled on Keith's side of the bed. Now that she was feeling better, she knew he probably needed to talk out some of his tension, "tomorrow Moretti testifies, we get Emmy back, and it's over, right?"  
  
"Something like that," he said distractedly as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his prosthetics.  
  
"I can't wait to see her again. I've been so worried."  
  
"I know."  
  
She reached for his prosthetics, intending to go wipe them down for him.  
  
"Leave it!" He snapped. "It's late. I'll do it in the morning."  
  
"Ok." They sat in silence until Olivia broke it. "Keith?"  
  
"What?" he snapped.  
  
"You seem worried. Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
"No. I'm fine," Keith said gruffly, "just tired. Let's get some sleep. Tomorrow's a big day."  
  
"Ok."  
  
As Olivia walked round to her side of the bed, Keith maneuvered himself under the covers on his side.  
  
"Goodnight, sweetheart," Liv said leaning toward him as she puckered up for her goodnight kiss. To her surprise, Keith turned away, switched out the light, and settled into bed as if he hadn't even noticed.  
  
"Sleep well, darling," she said softly, and he murmured something incoherent back at her. *Poor guy,* she thought, *he must be tired if he can nod off that quickly.*  
  
Liv settled down for the night, curling up close to her husband, feeling safe and warm, and before she knew it, she had fallen asleep herself.  
  
  
  
Moretti sat in the confessional and waited for the priest. He was surprised at what a comfortable fit it was. 'They must be building them bigger,' he thought. Then he grinned as he realized he was smaller. He'd lost over thirty pounds and nearly six inches from his waist since Emmy had put him on the diet and exercise routine.  
  
The screen slid aside, and his smile fell away.  
  
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned," he began. "It has been forty years since my last confession."  
  
He started with the little stuff, lying, cursing, stealing, masturbating, fornicating, and worked his way up through pimping, gambling, and dealing drugs, all of which were deeds he had facilitated or performed. He went on to tell of information he had suppressed or released knowing his action would lead to men's deaths. So far, the priest had taken things quite well.  
  
"And Father, I have personally killed seventeen men."  
  
He paused a beat, expecting the priest to speak. The he remembered the words. He couldn't believe he had forgotten the words! "I am sorry for these and all of my sins," he hastened to add.  
  
There was a long silence. Moretti began to fear that he had drawn a priest who would refuse to grant absolution, but he knew that was ridiculous. They were required to absolve anyone who confessed.  
  
Finally, the priest spoke.  
  
"You seem to have led quite the busy life."  
  
"Yes, Father," Moretti was grateful that the priest had taken a nonjudgmental tone.  
  
"Why wait so long to confess, my son?"  
  
"Because it wouldn't have done any good if I didn't stop."  
  
"And now you plan to stop?"  
  
Moretti took a deep breath to calm his nerves.  
  
"I plan to die tomorrow, Father. I'm gonna to give state's evidence against a former. . . colleague. If they don't kill me to shut me up, they'll kill me to get even."  
  
"I see." The priest was silent a long time again, then, "And you're hoping this last minute confession will get you into Heaven."  
  
It was Moretti's turn to be silent and think. When he spoke again, he was surprised by what he heard.  
  
"No, Father," he choked on his words, unfamiliar emotion rising up within him. After a shaky breath, he continued. "I'm hopin' it will get me a new start. I don't wanna go into the courthouse as a criminal lookin' to save his sorry hide. I just wanna be a man, like any other, lookin' to do the right thing."  
  
For the first time in as long as he could remember, Moretti found himself crying. He continued, tears welling in his eyes and streaming down his face all the while.  
  
"I have a kid, Father, and he's a good man. He don't know he's mine, but he knows who I am, and if he has any sense at all, he hates me for what I done. Before I die, I'd like to be someone he wouldn't hate, and I can only do that if I start fresh. Once in my life, I'd like to be. . . " He searched for a word, and found only one that was adequate, ". . . good."  
  
"What happens if you survive tomorrow, my son?"  
  
"I talk to more cops, testify in more trials, and then I get a new name and a new place to live, if I live that long." Moretti heard no trace of bitterness in his own voice, just sadness for all that he had lost. It surprised him, when he realized he did not feel the loss of money and fine restaurants and power, he was grieving the loss of a wife and a home and a family. Things he'd never known, and never known he'd missed until now.  
  
"So, you're giving up everything to testify against this colleague of yours. Why?"  
  
"At first, it was 'cause he threatened my kid, even though he didn't know it was my kid at the time." He forced the words past tears that would not stop.  
  
"And now," the priest prompted gently.  
  
"Now, well. . . " Moretti was gasping for breath through sobs he had been holding back for forty years or more. "Now, wrong is wrong, and bad is bad, and I'm not makin' any excuses, Father, but he's hurt a lot more people than I have, and I'm sorry, and he's not, and I am the only one who can do anything about it. Please, Father, what's my penance?"  
  
Again, the priest was silent for a long time. How does one set a penance for a man who already punishes himself? He listened to the man's sobs, and thought.  
  
"Father? Please?"  
  
"Your penance, my son. . . " The priest paused again, what should he say? "Your penance is to testify at the trial of your colleague, help the police in anyway you can. . . " Should he add more to it? Nodding to himself, he decided, yes. ". . . and ask your son to forgive you."  
  
It would be hard, Moretti knew, but he was relieved.  
  
"Yes, Father," he smiled through his tears.  
  
The priest heard the man smile and asked, "Do you remember the prayer of contrition?"  
  
"I think so. Will you help me if I forget?"  
  
"Of course, my son."  
  
Despite his continuing weeping, Moretti only stumbled once. "Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee. I detest all of my sins because of Thy just punishments, but most of all because they offend Thee, my God. . . "  
  
The priest prompted him, ". . . who are all good. . . "  
  
". . . who are all good and deserving of all of my love. I firmly resolve with the help of Thy grace to sin no more and to avoid the near occasions of sin. Amen."  
  
Finally, the priest granted him absolution. "God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins; through the ministry of the Church may God give you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit."  
  
The formula was a balm to Moretti's shredded spirit. He felt. . . alive again, hopeful for the first time in ages. There was no more cause for bitterness or sorrow. His life was a blank page again, like it had been when he was a child, and he was free to paint upon it any picture he wanted.  
  
The priest then dismissed him, saying, "Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good."  
  
Moretti responded, "His mercy endures forever."  
  
Moretti knew he should leave the booth, but something was holding him there.  
  
"It does, doesn't it, Father?" It was not a question born of confusion, but of awe and wonder.  
  
"My son?"  
  
"Endure forever."  
  
"Indeed it does, my son, indeed it does."  
  
  
  
Keith did not sleep well. Once Liv's breathing evened out and he was sure she was sleeping, he opened his eyes and studied her face. She looked innocent and untroubled. All that night, Keith watched his wife sleep like an angel and wondered. After so many sleepless nights, with the trial looming in the morning and the danger that surrounded their daughter because of it, how could she possibly, tonight of all nights, find the peace of mind to have a sound and restful sleep? 


	22. A Secret Way In

(Chapter 22. Emily's safe house, beach house, United States Court House. March 28.)  
  
As the alarm went off, Emily yawned and stretched and moaned when the stabbing pain shot out from her back, catching her entire body off guard. She took several slow breaths to bring the pain under control, then she settled back against her pillows and sighed. This was it, THE BIG DAY. The trial began at nine. She figured after the formalities of opening statements and so forth, the DA would be ready for Moretti by ten. She had no idea how long it would take both the prosecution and defense to question him, but at the end of the day, he would be Agent Wagner's problem and she would be free again.  
  
She frowned, feeling guilty that she had considered him a problem as she sat up, grabbed her laptop off the nightstand, and activated it. At first, Moretti had been a pain in the ass, but as Emily had gotten to know him, she'd found he wasn't such a bad guy. Granted, the rules of his world were somewhat different from her own, but he lived by those rules and he had a sense of honor, which was more than she could say for some of the so-called good men she had know in her life. And once he had decided to turn state's evidence, he had never once wavered. Despite what he had done in the past, she had to admire that kind of courage and integrity.  
  
Her frown deepened as she tapped away at the program that would give the FBI's missing persons/most wanted page and the facial recognition program a Moretti-and-Emily shaped blind spot. She would probably have to answer some questions herself, about kidnapping a federal witness and stealing a few cell phones, not to mention hacking into federal and LAPD computer systems, but at least she would be out of hiding. She could stop wearing disguises and skulking around, dodging security cameras that might be linked to the FBI's facial recognition program and generally avoiding people. She could stop feeling like a criminal and go back to being a cop. And she could get some medical attention for her aching back and maybe some stronger meds for her creeping ick. She knew she needed antibiotics at the very least.  
  
A soft knock sounded at her door.  
  
"Em, it's 7:00. Ya up?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Whatcha want for breakfast?"  
  
"Nothing."  
  
"Ya sure?"  
  
"Yeah, but don't let me stop you. You're gonna have a long day. You'll need something."  
  
"Ok. How ya feelin'?"  
  
She gave it some thought and finally said, "Too soon to tell."  
  
She heard Moretti chuckling on the other side of the door. Then he said, "Well, don't take too long to decide. We should be at the courthouse by ten."  
  
"I already had that planned, Moretti. Go get your breakfast."  
  
"Ok. See ya soon."  
  
"Not if I see you first."  
  
She heard Moretti chuckle again and smiled to herself to know he could laugh in spite of the danger he was facing, and there was no doubt he was still in grave danger. She knew she could get him to the trial all right. She had worked that out two weeks ago when she had gone to the courthouse for the phony trial. She knew it had been a trap, but even so, she had used the opportunity to scope out the courthouse and found a way in that she was sure no one else knew about.  
  
  
  
At eight o'clock sharp, Steve had arrived at the courthouse, and he had promptly begun pacing through the courtroom. He had hand picked the entire team of LAPD officers helping with this detail, and he knew he could trust each of them. Jesse had personally vouched for the paramedics on the chopper and the waiting ambulance, so if anything did go wrong, which he reminded himself it wouldn't, he knew he could count on the emergency medical personnel to do their jobs. Ron's people had worked for him for years, and Judge Greer had assured him that there was no reason to be concerned about the court employees.  
  
Unfortunately, all criminal trials were open to the public, and when Moretti arrived to testify, anyone in the observation gallery could be gunning for him. There was also a slim chance that Vinnie Gaudino had gotten to one of the jurors. If someone were in desperate straits, a promise of assistance for a small favor might just be what it took to eliminate Moretti permanently.  
  
Then there was Emily herself. She had been a wild card from the start, and if she didn't like the looks of things, she could easily refuse to bring Moretti in. While that wouldn't create any immediate safety issues, it was entirely possible that Judge Greer would be obliged to dismiss the charges. Moretti was the main witness against Gaudino, and the whole case hung on his testimony. Without him to explain, all the other documents the DA had were just so many scraps of paper.  
  
Steve glanced down at his hand and noticed all the diodes on the glove were glowing amber. He paused, closed his eyes, and took a few deep breaths, reminding himself that they were as ready as they could be for whatever might happen. When he opened his eyes again, the damned diodes were still amber, and his frustration at the lack of change caused a couple of them to shoot into the red, which angered him still more. Soon all of the diodes were bright red, and his tension was still mounting.  
  
Suddenly, he remembered the first day Olivia had hooked him up to the biofeedback monitors. He had gotten quickly upset then, too, and she had helped him calm down quickly. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. His mind searched for a pleasant thought to settle on, and soon he was remembering shooting hoops with his son and Keith. He and Keith had made a good team, and had almost given Steven a run for his money. Maybe when all this was over, Emily could join them for a little two on two. Unexpectedly, Steve found himself smiling at that prospect, and when he opened his eyes, he found the diodes back into the green and amber.  
  
  
  
Moretti pulled out his seat at the breakfast table to find a full suit of the latest generation of body armor draped neatly over his chair. It was the same stuff Emmy and her goons had worn when they kidnapped him. Lightweight and breathable, the high-tech fabric was no heavier than a typical cotton dress shirt, yet it could stop all conventional ammunition at any distance over twenty-five feet.  
  
As he unfolded the shirt, he noticed the shoulder had been bloodied and the fabric had been repaired. It had also been expanded by adding a center panel in the front and back. He shook out the pants and saw that they had been enlarged in a similar fashion by adding panels to the side seams.  
  
With sudden, sickening dread, he realized that this was Emily's body armor, enlarged to fit him. The bloodied shoulder was where she had been shot while kidnapping him. Somewhere she had acquired enough of the fabric to alter this suit for him, but she was intending to go into the courtroom completely unprotected. Suddenly, he was furious.  
  
Storming into her room, he yelled, "Dammit, Em!"  
  
She jumped and winced in pain when he startled her.  
  
"What?"  
  
Throwing the suit at her he said, "I can't wear this!"  
  
Looking at him innocently, she said, "Yes, you can. I altered it so it would fit."  
  
"That's not what I mean, and you know it. I can't wear this and let you go in there . . . naked."  
  
"You can, and you will, Moretti," she said coolly, still tapping away at her laptop. "It's no good to me now anyway. It has to fit snug to work. Otherwise, the slack in the fabric just goes into the flesh around the bullet. I had a lot of extra fabric for repairs, and that was the only sensible use for it. See, the stuff is really strong, but the fibers are brittle, and when you fold them repeatedly, they tend to break. We were constantly blowing out at the elbows, shoulders, knees, waist, and hips. The suits cost a fortune, so our source just gave us a bolt of the cloth and told us to fix it ourselves. I had just enough left to enlarge that suit for you."  
  
Moretti's eyes had briefly glazed over. He wasn't the slightest bit interested in the details of maintaining a full suit of body armor. When he realized she was finished talking, however, he went right back to arguing with her.  
  
"I won't wear it, Em, not if it means you going without."  
  
"Listen to me, you stupid stubborn ass," she suddenly flared at him, "I have given up way too much to keep you alive this long. I will be in disguise. Nobody will spot me. You will be on the stand, out in the open, a sitting duck. If you get shot, all we've been through will be for nothing. Wear the damned suit."  
  
Moretti gave it some thought, and finally said, "Ok, but if you get hurt, I'm gonna kick your ass."  
  
"Fine, now get out of my bedroom."  
  
  
  
"Come on, O, you need to get dressed. The trial starts in an hour."  
  
Olivia sat on the foot of the bed staring into her closet. "I don't know what to wear."  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"I . . . I don't know what to wear, Keith. What should I wear?"  
  
O wasn't the vain and shallow type concerned about looking good and being seen. Keith took one glance at her and knew she was dangerously close to breaking down. Olivia had always been emotionally fragile, with good reason, and Keith had striven to be understanding when she found herself out on the edge. Today, though, his patience was used up. She had confided in Steve about all the tragedies and terrors of her past, yet, she had left him, her husband of thirty years, to fumble along blindly through her emotional minefield, and he resented it. For the first time in their marriage, he responded with frustration rather than compassion.  
  
Taking her navy suit from the closet, he tossed it in her lap and said, "Can the histrionics and get dressed. I am leaving in twenty minutes with or without you."  
  
When she visibly shrank in on herself, he immediately felt sorry for what he had said, but he was just too angry to apologize.  
  
  
  
Emily sucked in a painful breath as she sat down at the small vanity in her bedroom to begin her makeup. It had taken her just under an hour to shower, dress, and dry her hair. The crud was slowing her down and she now wished she had set the alarm for six thirty. No matter how fast she tried to move, she felt as if she were traveling through Jello, and she wasn't sure she would get Moretti to the courthouse on time. She didn't suppose it mattered much, though, because she felt certain the DA and his other witness could fill the first couple of hours if necessary. She'd spoken with Agent Wagner a couple of times before she went underground, and she knew he had enough to say to make his testimony last quite a while.  
  
Emmy ran a fingertip over the row of different colored foundations lined up like little soldiers in front of the mirror and then picked out a rich tan color. She had an image in her mind's eye of what she wanted to look like today, and this color would do nicely for Petra. She'd been working this character out for a while, and had chosen the name to match her personality. Petra was Italian for 'rock,' and that's what she intended to be for Moretti. On this, their final, difficult day together, he would be able to look to her for strength and stability.  
  
Selecting a pair of fake moles--they sure weren't beauty marks--she laid them out on the vanity top and attached a few dark wiry hairs to them. Petra was homely, but not hideous. Then Emily took her bottle of liquid latex film and painted the sticky white liquid thinly on her forehead and thicker at the corners of her eyes and mouth. To make the wrinkles that would age her beyond her years, she contorted her face as the stuff dried. The new makeup was a wonderful thing, and when one only needed a few wrinkles and not a nose or a whole face, it was much faster than making a full mask or even a half-mask. It was also much more reliable because it could adhere directly to the skin instead of having to be glued on, and as a result there was less chance of it coming off at an unfortunate moment.  
  
She went to the bathroom for a couple of Advil and a glass of water and by the time she got back to the vanity, the latex had dried enough to texturize. She took a piece of paper with a fine pattern on it that came with the liquid latex and pressed it firmly to her face until she felt the warmth of her hand through the paper and the latex. She gently peeled away the paper, and now the white rubbery film looked like it was made of thousands of tiny dermal cells all packed together. Once she had dabbed the foundation across her cheeks, brow, and chin and evened the color out with a cosmetic sponge, the phony wrinkles blended in perfectly with her own, unlined, youthful skin. A little shading around her nose made it appear broader and a darker hue under her eyes sunk them in.  
  
Regretfully, she realized she didn't need to do much to look older than she really was. The bug that had gotten her down was doing that for her just fine.  
  
The she turned to the tedious chore of putting on her menopause moustache one hair at a time. Each fine dark strand had to be tipped with a special invisible adhesive and applied to her face individually for the effect to be convincing. As she thought about how much easier it would have been to go as a man, she resisted the urge to sigh because that would scatter the hairs hither and yon. As a man, she could have just daubed a little spirit gum on a fake handlebar moustache, stuck it to her face and been ready to go, but Petra, the stoic, supportive Italian woman, with heart of gold, will of iron, and face of stone, had captured her imagination, and Emily had to get her just right.  
  
  
  
"Yes, Minister Chen, I will convey your regrets to Mark Sloan and his family. I know they were looking forward to seeing you after your visit to Silicon Valley, and thank you for calling, sir."  
  
Leigh Ann looked at the clock. It was 8:30. She had just enough time to make the necessary calls and e-mails to cancel the security arrangements for the Chinese Trade Minister's visit before she went to the trial. Now that she had nothing else to do, the Chief would never question her presence there, and she could just say she came to the courthouse to tell him in person.  
  
By 8:35, she was on her way out of the station.  
  
  
  
Emily looked at the reflection in the mirror. Petra had a dark, dry complexion, a thin moustache indicative of the change of life, and two moles sprouting hair, one on her right cheek and the other on her chin. Crows feet at the corners of her eyes and deep laugh lines gave the impression of one who had lived much in her fifty-odd years and ill applied makeup gave her away as a plain, sensible woman, not given to flights of fancy, but doing her best to look sharp for an important event.  
  
Rouge, just a little too red, brightened her withered cheeks, and glossy, Crayola lipstick covered her thin lips, feathering out beyond the edges because she had neglected to apply lip-liner. The salt and pepper hair was pulled back into a severe bun at the base of her neck, and large, thick- lensed glasses rested on the bridge of her almost aquiline nose, the frames so big and round that every time she smiled, her cheeks raised them up and carried them a little farther down her nose. Every now and then, she had to push them up with her middle finger. Her nails were short and ragged, and her hands were work-roughened. She was dressed severely in a plain wool suit, her jacket and skirt both solid black, and her white collared blouse very plain. She wore hose that bagged slightly at the ankles and sensible black shoes, and except for her perfectly ordinary silver watch with the black leather band, her only jewelry was an onyx brooch pinned to the lapel of her jacket and matching stud earrings. Only the snub-nosed thirty-eight in the shoulder holster was out of place, and she would ditch that as soon as Moretti was safely in place.  
  
Petra was undoubtedly a solid, steady woman on whom someone could depend as surely as the Rock of Gibraltar. She looked at herself once more in the mirror and nodded with satisfaction, then picked up the phone.  
  
  
  
At about 8:35, Steve's cell phone started vibrating. He'd turned it off the moment he'd entered Judge Greer's courtroom knowing the man's distaste for the devices. Two years ago, he had left the ringer on by mistake, and had been in the courtroom testifying on a case when Maribeth had called him to ask him to pick up a gallon of milk on his way home. He'd switched the ringer off immediately, let the voicemail function take a message, apologized to the court, and went on with his testimony as if nothing had happened. Judge Greer had allowed him to finish, and he was stepping down from the stand, feeling as though he had dodged a bullet, when the judge had charged him with contempt of court because the sign on the door to the courtroom said to turn off all electronic devices. Since he didn't have the cash on him to pay the fine, he had been forced to spend the night in a private cell in the county jail. A number of local reporters and one nationally syndicated editorial cartoonist had had great fun at his expense.  
  
As far as Steve knew, the only person who had ever gotten away with having a ringing cell phone in Judge Greer's courtroom had been a witness on dialysis waiting for a heart transplant. The woman was in such a desperate situation that she was too afraid to trust the courthouse operator to contact her during the trial, and had refused to testify unless she could have the phone with her and turned on at all times. Naturally, the call came in the middle of her testimony, and Steve still wasn't sure if Greer would have let the woman go in for the surgery before serving her time or paying the fine for contempt if she hadn't requested and received permission to have the phone on her before the trial began.  
  
He flipped open the phone and began to speak. The trial hadn't started and the judge wasn't there yet, so he was safe.  
  
"Sloan here."  
  
"If everything looks good, Moretti will be there by ten."  
  
"Emily!"  
  
The line was already dead. The diodes on the glove all shot up to red.  
  
  
  
At twenty minutes before nine, Leigh Ann signed out of the station on her way to Judge Greer's courtroom. She unclipped her police ID and slipped it in her pocket as she left the desk sergeant, and when she got to the door, she stopped, and smiling, she held it open for 'Fredo Cioffi and Charles Donovan as they each brought in a dolly loaded with boxes she knew contained the tapes from Mr. Gorini's warehouse. For a moment, she felt his loss afresh, then she smiled with the satisfaction of knowing that before the day was out she would finish what he had started.  
  
"Come on, guys, give me something," a young man whined as he followed them in. "Oh, excuse me," he added vacantly as he half noticed Leigh Ann still holding the door.  
  
"No way, Murdoch," 'Fredo told him as he and Donovan headed toward the evidence lockers. "You know individual officers can't talk to the press about an ongoing investigation without approval from their superiors."  
  
"But guys," the young man was still following them down the hall, "I'm not the press. I'm freelance, and I gotta eat. Just a hint, please? Enough for one story?"  
  
Glancing about as if to make sure the coast was clear, Donovan told 'Fredo, "Stay with the stuff," and he headed back toward the young reporter, "Come here, Lenny," the officer said, putting an arm around the reporter's shoulders and whispering conspiratorially as he walked him back down the hall. "I'll tell you something."  
  
The reporter eagerly took his notebook and pencil out of his pocket and leaned in to hear what Donovan had to say. As they got back out into the lobby, Donovan pointed at a sign and told him, "That sign says, 'No unescorted visitors beyond this point.' Now, if you ever follow me down that hall again, I will arrest you, got it?"  
  
"Man," the reporter complained as Donovan rejoined 'Fredo and they shared a laugh at his expense, "you guys suck!"  
  
As Leigh Ann watched the exchange, an idea was born in her mind. She slipped quickly out the door and down the steps of the police station. When she got to the street, she ducked around some bushes beside the steps and waited for the reporter to emerge.  
  
  
  
Lenny Murdoch walked away from the police station sulking. His rent was a week past due already, and he was fresh out of leads. When he saw Donovan and Cioffi heading into the station with boxes of evidence and noticed boxes and boxes more in the van they had left under guard in the street, he knew something big was up, but they hadn't budged, and the officer guarding the van had threatened him. Now, he didn't know what to do.  
  
"Psst!"  
  
Lenny paused, glanced around, shrugged, and resumed walking.  
  
"Psst! Over here!" a sharp whisper turned him around and he walked over to a woman in her late thirties who was cowering in the bushes. When he got to her, she pulled him close and said, "I've got a story for you."  
  
Wary of another ego bruising joke he asked skeptically, "What?"  
  
"It's about those boxes. They're full of tapes. From what I hear, a lot of people could be going to jail."  
  
"Yeah? Who?"  
  
"Two city councilmen, a police commissioner, three city contractors, and a U.S. Senator, for starters."  
  
"And who are you to know that?" he asked the woman.  
  
She winked and said, "An unnamed source within the police department."  
  
Murdoch shook his head and said, "Sorry, I need more than that before I trust you."  
  
"Hey," the woman said, "you're desperate for a story. What do you care?"  
  
"Despite public opinion, some of us do give a damn about the truth," he said. "I may be desperate, but I won't print unconfirmed rumors."  
  
Taking a deep breath and rolling her eyes heavenward as if she were thinking it over, the woman reluctantly pulled her ID out of her pocket. Placing her thumb over her name, she turned the card toward him, revealing her picture, the words LAPD Civilian Police Assistant, the department seal, and Deputy Chief Steve Sloan's signature.  
  
Surprised, Lenny said, "Oh, shit, you do know what's going on, don't you?"  
  
She bobbed her head noncommittally and said, "Sort of. I know it's big, but I'm not sure how big."  
  
Murdoch's face rumpled into a frown then. "So why tell me? You could lose your job."  
  
She chewed her lip nervously and said, "I know. But they're hiding something," she said gesturing toward the building as if to include everyone in it in the cover-up and conspiracy. Having already seen the inventory of items 'Fredo and Donovan had prepared for the Chief, she knew exactly what was being hid, and who had hidden it, but there was no point in giving that information out yet. "After the scandals three years ago, well, if there are still dirty cops in the LAPD, then I think they need to be stopped."  
  
She jumped in fear and cowered into the shrubbery when she heard Cioffi and Donovan laughing as they left the building and headed back to the van for another stack of boxes.  
  
"Do you have a card?" she begged.  
  
"Huh?"  
  
"A business card. I can't be seen talking to you, but I'll call you as soon as I know something."  
  
"Oh, yeah." Murdoch handed her a slip of stiff white paper with his phone and fax numbers and his e-mail on it.  
  
She snatched it away and said, "I have to go. I'm supposed to be somewhere soon and if they miss me, they might start asking questions."  
  
"Be careful," Murdoch called to the woman as she scurried off.  
  
Leigh Ann smiled slightly as she heard the genuine concern in the man's voice.  
  
  
  
By quarter to nine, Olivia and Keith were climbing the steps to the United States Courthouse on Spring Street. Knowing Emily, it would be at least another hour before she made her grand entrance, although she was just as likely to try to slip in unnoticed by prying eyes. Either way, Keith wanted to be there early to get the lay of the land, and O just wanted to be near her husband during this critical time.  
  
"Liv! Keith! Wait up!"  
  
They stopped and turned at the familiar voice and saw Steven approaching. Liv smiled at him. Keith glowered.  
  
"Steven," she said, "I'm glad you could make it."  
  
"I had to be here, Liv. Emily is, well, she's very special to me."  
  
Liv patted his cheek. "I know, sweetie, and you're special to her, too."  
  
"Uh, thanks, Liv."  
  
Steven smiled at this gentle woman. He could easily see why his dad was so fond of her. She had a comforting presence about her. This was the first time they had discussed his relationship to her daughter. For some reason, while things were so up in the air with Em on the run, they had avoided the subject by mutual agreement. Now, though, the few words Liv had spoken were all Steven needed to know she understood the feelings he and Em shared for each other, and the tone of her voice when she spoke them plainly voiced her approval.  
  
"Come on," she said, taking his hand in hers, "Keith is going to be working with your dad, you can keep me company."  
  
"Ok," Steven agreed. "I'd like that."  
  
When they walked into the courtroom, Steve turned and frowned at them. "Steven! Liv? What are you doing here?"  
  
Steven and Liv stopped to talk, but Keith pushed past him without a word and, limping slightly, moved down to the front row of seats to look around the room  
  
"She's my daughter, Steve, where else should I be?"  
  
"Dad, Em and I were dating for five months before all of this started. A couple weeks ago, you told me she said she was sorry. Today, I'm going to tell her she had no need to apologize."  
  
Steve nodded, but his guts burned as he realized how hurt and angry his son would be when he learned the truth about Emily. The pain got worse as he wondered how he would explain keeping the facts from his son all this time, and before he realized it, he had pulled a roll of antacid tablets out of his pocket and started chewing a couple.  
  
"Dad?"  
  
"Steve!"  
  
Looking from the tablets in his hand to the two worried faces before him, he raised a warning finger and said, "Not today. Now, have a seat and stay out of the way."  
  
As they moved to sit in the second row of seats behind the prosecution, Steve glanced down and saw all the diodes on the glove glowing red. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply for several moments, and when he looked again, they were mixed red and amber.  
  
'That will have to be good enough,' he thought, 'at least for today.'  
  
  
  
Promptly at nine o'clock Tony, the same bailiff who had taken Steve into custody on his contempt charge, began the trial. At the same time, DA Conrad Downs sent a runner to the security office for Ron, who was supposed to be his first witness. Cheryl and Al Cioffi were there with him, and they would be keeping an eye on the video monitors until he finished his testimony. Then he would go back and watch the monitors with the guard while they went into the courtroom.  
  
"Hear ye, hear ye, this court is now in session, the honorable Judge Jason A. Greer, presiding. Silence is commanded. All rise!"  
  
The crowd stood as Judge Greer entered the courtroom, his black silk robes billowing around him as he strode purposefully to the bench. He paused a moment before he sat and surveyed his courtroom. He was a man who obviously relished his job. The rituals and routines of the court, unchanged for two hundred and fifty years brought him alive every time, and the gentle cadence of the bailiff's ceremonial introduction never failed to remind him of the power he wielded within these four walls and the responsibility he bore to use it wisely. He took his seat.  
  
"Be seated," Tony told the audience.  
  
"And what are we starting with today, Tony?" Judge Greer asked as if he didn't know.  
  
"Case number 1702-6542-33, Your Honor," Tony read from the folder in his hand. "The United States versus Vincent, a.k.a. Vincenzo, a.k.a. Vince, a.k.a. Vinnie, Armando Gaudino on charges of money laundering and racketeering."  
  
Greer accepted the folder from his bailiff and pulled his reading glasses low on his nose. He checked through the documents briefly. He knew everything was in order, but he always made one more check to be sure.  
  
Peering over his glasses at the defendant, he asked, "Mr. Gaudino, do you understand the charges that have been levied against you?"  
  
"I do, Your Honor," Gaudino replied formally, and Greer smiled inwardly, realizing Gaudino had almost as much experience at this as he had himself.  
  
"And how do you plead?"  
  
"Not guilty, Your Honor."  
  
Turning to the court recorder, he said, "Let the record reflect that the defendant has entered a plea of not guilty." Then he looked at the prosecuting attorney and said, "Mr. Downs, you may begin your opening statement."  
  
The despite the worry over Emily and the stress of wondering if Moretti would actually show up, Steve let the familiar rhythms of the beginning of a trial lull him. As he glanced down, he saw the diodes on the glove fluctuating between green and amber.  
  
  
  
Em, now Petra, sat carefully in the passenger seat of the Viper. Moretti was driving because she had told him a woman like Petra looked out of place behind the wheel of a sporty little car like that. Petra was more the station wagon type, but she could ride along with her husband as he entered a midlife crisis. What she didn't tell him was she really wasn't sure she was in any condition to drive. After four Advil, her back was still killing her, and the only thing preventing the dry heaves was a supreme effort of will.  
  
  
  
About halfway through the defense attorney's opening statement, Steve felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Leigh Ann smiling down at him. If he hadn't been in Greer's courtroom, he probably would have cursed aloud at the shock. As it was, his stomach washed with acid and the diodes on the glove all blinked red.  
  
"Hello, Chief."  
  
"Um, hello. What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be working on the Chinese Trade Minister's visit?"  
  
"Minister Chen cancelled, Sir," she whispered. "He sends his regrets to you and your family. I'll just have a seat at the back now."  
  
Steve nodded mutely.  
  
When she was gone, Keith leaned over and asked, "What in the hell is *she* doing here?"  
  
Steve whispered back, "For some reason the damned Chinese Trade Minister cancelled early on us. We'll just have to keep an eye on her."  
  
"I don't know about you," Keith said, "but I don't have eyes in the back of my head."  
  
  
  
By 9:20, opening statements were over and Ron Wagner had taken the stand. His testimony was deadly dull but vital to the case. It was his job to explain what made the FBI suspicious of Gaudino in the first place and how the FBI had begun to gather evidence against him. More importantly, he had to tell the jury how they had made contact with Moretti. Nobody had told the judge or the defense, but it was also his job to keep talking until Moretti arrived.  
  
  
  
"Just keep going," Em said as Moretti slowed down near the courthouse.  
  
"But, Em . . . "  
  
"Go two blocks and hang a left," she said, "and trust me."  
  
Moretti did as he was told, grumbling all the while, and parked where she told him. While Em plugged her laptop in to the Viper's power port (not original equipment, Moretti noticed with some irritation, again annoyed at how some idiot had ruined the sporty little car) and uploaded her program, he got the jack handle out of the trunk of the car and pried up a manhole cover. Then she tossed him a set of gray coveralls and slipped into another set herself, Petra's skirt bunching up around her hips and making a bulge. Finally, she got two small flashlights, a briefcase, a black balaclava, and a small wallet out of the trunk. She put the wallet in the breast pocket of the coverall and stuffed the balaclava in her hip pocket, gave one flashlight to Moretti, and handed him the briefcase.  
  
She slipped into the manhole, groaning softly in pain.  
  
"The old courthouse was leveled in the big quake of '05. They re-built on the same site, but when the money started running out, they left certain parts of the interior unfinished," she explained to Moretti as she sank into the earth, her voice beginning to echo. "Toss me the briefcase," she added when she got to the floor of the tunnel.  
  
Moretti dropped the case and followed her into the tunnel, pulling the cover back in place over the hole. When he joined her in the tunnel proper, they turned on their lights and began walking.  
  
"The offices and courtrooms were eventually finished, but since the basement is just maintenance and storage, they left it alone," she continued as Moretti fell into step behind her and they strolled quietly through the surprisingly dry vacant tunnel. "This sewer hasn't been used since it was ruptured in the quake, so we have a decent path in. A hole at the other end opens onto a door in the basement of the courthouse. They were planning an underground footpath to the Roybal Federal Building, but when the money ran out, they just gave it up."  
  
"Em, how did ya find all this out?"  
  
In the soft glow of their flashlights, she looked at him as if to say, 'What kind of stupid question is that?'  
  
"Oh," he said, "th' Internet."  
  
"Right, it took a little digging, but anyone who knew what they were looking for could find the information. Then when Chief Sloan tried to set us up a couple weeks back, I got here a little early and checked it out."  
  
"If anyone could find it, how do ya know nobody's waitin' for us at th' end of that tunnel?"  
  
"Like I said, anybody who *knew what they were looking for* could find it. I doubt very much anyone was looking for an underground entrance to the courthouse."  
  
"But ya ain't sure."  
  
"Nothing's a sure thing, Moretti, but I'll bet we're the only people ever to go through this tunnel since the construction was halted."  
  
"Yep, an' you're bettin' my life."  
  
She looked over her shoulder at him and said, "I know that's just nerves talking, Moretti, because anything that happens, I'll get it first." She turned then, and gave him a squeeze on the shoulder. "It'll be ok."  
  
Moretti took a deep breath and nodded. "Right. Thanks, Em."  
  
She nodded back, turned, and they continued down the tunnel in silence.  
  
  
  
When the defense did not stipulate to Ron's testimony, the hearts of the prosecution, the police, and FBI sent up a silent cheer. If Gaudino's lawyers had agreed to accept everything Ron intended to say as unimpeachable truth, there would be no need for Ron to testify. The prosecution would immediately have to produce its only other witness, Giancarlo Moretti, who was still missing in action.  
  
Now, after listening to Ron drone on for about ten minutes, Steve almost wanted to tank the whole operation and let Gaudino go. Never in his life had he ever met a man who could make anything sound so mind-numbingly boring. Ron was not a dull guy, but he couldn't tell a joke to save his life. People lost interest by the time he got to the punch line. Why did Steve expect his testimony on investigative procedures be any different? He was good at one-liners, though. It was a shame his testimony couldn't be delivered as a series of dry-witted wisecracks. At least that would prevent the jury from slipping into a coma.  
  
  
  
"Ok," Emily said, pushing Moretti down a turnoff in the tunnel and handing him the briefcase. "You wait here until I call you. If you hear anyone else, run like hell."  
  
"Right," Moretti would have preferred to stick with her and cover her back if something went wrong, but he knew, if he got into a fray and was killed, everything she had been through would be for nothing. He wouldn't do anything to waste her efforts the past few weeks, so he just followed orders.  
  
As Moretti peeked around the corner to watch, Emily walked up to the door at the end of the tunnel and pressed her ear against it, listening for voices. All she heard was the noise of circulation fans and the hum of the central heating and cooling unit. She eased herself down to kneel in front of the doorknob, and slipped the leather wallet out of her breast pocket. It took her seventeen seconds to pick the lock.  
  
She unzipped the coverall and reached inside to draw her gun, then she opened the door and slipped into the utility room. From there, she moved on to search other parts of the basement, and within five minutes, she was sure the coast was clear. She went back to the side tunnel and called to Moretti and he came sprinting down the hall.  
  
Without a word, she led him to a ventilation shaft, and they began crawling silently through the ductwork.  
  
  
  
Harold Miles, head custodian for the Spring Street Courthouse moved his cart of recyclables purposefully down the corridor to the back door where he would empty it before going on to the next floor, loading up, and repeating the process. It usually took him two hours to get all the recycling out. He started when he arrived at eight and finished just before the truck came at ten. Then he took his break.  
  
Usually, he took his ten o'clock break in Judge Greer's courtroom. He enjoyed watching the distinguished jurist work. Greer insisted on proper decorum in his court and had once charged a defendant with contempt of court for chewing a big wad of bubble gum while on the witness stand. The nineteen-year-old had been blowing bubbles, cracking his gum, and smacking his lips like a pig feeding at the trough for about five minutes, and had ignored his own attorney when the lawyer had asked him to get rid of it. When the young wannabe thug stuck the gum on the underside of his seat as a challenge, he was also charged with vandalism and received a second contempt charge. Harold had seen him later that same week, dressed in the bright orange prisoner's jumpsuit, on his back on the sidewalk outside the courthouse, scraping gum off the undersides of the public benches.  
  
Today, though, Harold was undecided about whether he wanted to spend his break in the judge's courtroom. Last time they had brought Vinnie Gaudino in, it was a set up to trap Giancarlo Moretti and that young lady cop who'd kidnapped him. Gaudino had been a cop in costume and the girl had figured out it was a trap. She had caught Harold in the restroom, drugged him, and given him a note for Deputy Chief Sloan. With the testimony Moretti was expected to deliver, Harold wasn't sure if Judge Greer's court was the safest or the most dangerous place for him to go today.  
  
  
  
Emily crawled past an open duct and stopped. She motioned Moretti down the duct to her left.  
  
"It's a dead end," Moretti whispered.  
  
"I know. It's Judge Greer's chambers. I was in here last time, before I drugged the janitor and sent him in with the message for the Chief."  
  
Moretti crawled down the duct to the open vent at the end and peered through the grate. Emily was right behind him.  
  
"Whatcha see?" she asked.  
  
"Big desk," he whispered, "probably mahogany. There's a football on it."  
  
"And three framed pictures on the shelf behind it?"  
  
"Yeah. A pretty lady, a young man, an' a family of five."  
  
"That's his wife, his son, and his daughter and her family."  
  
"Oh."  
  
"You see the clock?"  
  
"Yeah, it's twenty-five minutes to ten."  
  
"Ok, take these." She handed her gun and the briefcase up to him.  
  
"Em . . . "  
  
"After I get a message to the judge, I'm going into the courtroom. I can't take the gun in there, and you need the documents in the briefcase. You wait here, and don't come out until you see Chief Sloan, Agent Wagner, and my dad, got it?"  
  
"But Em . . . "  
  
"I mean it Moretti. Anybody else spots you up here, you shoot and run, got it? No one's got any business in the judge's chambers when court is in session, and if they come here, they're definitely up to no good."  
  
"Ok."  
  
"Good. Look for me in the courtroom behind Gaudino."  
  
"All right. Be careful, an' don't get caught."  
  
"Well, now, there you go spoiling all my fun," she joked, but when she laughed quietly at her own joke, Moretti heard her moan in pain.  
  
"You should just turn yourself in now," Moretti told her. "You need a doctor."  
  
"Not until I know you're safe."  
  
"You're a good kid, Em."  
  
"Thanks." She crawled away silently.  
  
Moretti stayed crouched in the ventilation shaft and waited.  
  
  
  
Having dumped the contents of his cart out the hatch and into the recycling bin, Harold went to the service elevator and headed for the next floor. Suddenly the car stopped. After trying the buttons several times, he pressed the emergency button, but nothing happened. Then the emergency hatch in the ceiling opened and with frightening speed, a gray-suited figure, face covered with a black balaclava came flying down at him.  
  
  
  
Steve shifted uneasily in his seat and stifled a yawn. He'd once seen Judge Greer charge a juror with contempt of court for falling asleep and snoring during a trial. He liked Greer because the man saw court proceedings as a solemn and serious thing, and he respected him because, as he could personally attest, Greer showed no favoritism. Deputy Chiefs of Police who neglected to turn off their cell phones faced the same contempt charges as obnoxious, gum chewing teenagers, snoring jurors, and lawyers who addressed the court without wearing a coat and tie. In fact, Greer was the only judge Steve knew who still flatly refused to allow cameras in his courtroom.  
  
Smothering another yawn, Steve shook his head and looked down at the glove. The diodes had been amber and green at the beginning of the trial, but now they were all amber. Intense boredom could be as stressful as too much action. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Keith's head bobbing.  
  
Leaning over, he whispered, "Stay awake, or this judge will put you in jail. He's a good man, but a hardass if there ever was one."  
  
Keith grunted softly, nodded, shifted in his seat, blinked a few times, and opened his eyes wide.  
  
  
  
Before Harold could cry out, he found himself in a headlock, mouth covered, and the stranger was whispering harshly in his ear.  
  
"I won't hurt you. I didn't last time. Will you be quiet?"  
  
Too scared to do anything else, Harold just nodded, and he was released. Turning to face his assailant, he said softly, "Who . . . who are you?"  
  
The stranger sighed and said, "The same person who drugged you in the john last time. I need you to deliver another message for me, but this time I don't have time to drug you and wait for you to come round."  
  
"Why should I help you?"  
  
"Because if I wanted to hurt you I'd have done it by now," the stranger said without menace, "and if I mean you no harm, then the only reason I could possibly have for coming to you this way must be to ask for help. Will you deliver the message?"  
  
Harold thought a moment and nodded.  
  
  
  
At twenty minutes to ten, Steve heard the door to the courtroom open again and turned to see a tall, slim, plain looking woman severely dressed in a black suit and white blouse enter. She had salt and pepper hair, overlarge glasses, and clownish makeup. As Steve watched, she moved awkwardly down the aisle, as if in pain, and took a seat directly behind Vinnie Gaudino, three rows back.  
  
*Must be his sister,* Steve thought.  
  
Emily/Petra had chosen her seat with care. Every time Moretti looked to her for support and encouragement, to the judge and jury, he would appear to be staring right at Gaudino. If he sounded nervous, he would get the sympathy vote, a man afraid for his life, and if he seemed calm, he would get the integrity vote, a man unafraid to speak the truth, despite what it may cost him.  
  
Also, her mother and Steven were seated behind her to the right, and her father was off to the side, out of her peripheral vision, so she could resist the temptation to burst into tears and run into their arms for comfort. She was still in pain and had missed them all so much, and now that she was so close she could almost smell her mother's perfume, she just wanted to be held.  
  
She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to the trial.  
  
Agent Wagner was still rambling on in his testimony, and half the courtroom was staring with glazed eyes while the other half was fidgeting to stay awake. He finally finished his answer, and the prosecutor said, "No further questions."  
  
There was a collective sigh of relief.  
  
"Mr. Casale?" Judge Greer said.  
  
When the defense attorney said, "I just have a few questions, Your Honor," a quiet collective moan was suddenly cut short by a sharp glance from Judge Greer.  
  
The silence was punctuated by a small chuckle from Gaudino, but that died just as suddenly when the Judge cleared his throat.  
  
Finally, the judge said, "You may begin, Mr. Casale."  
  
The defense attorney threw out question after question, sometimes in quick succession, sometimes waiting several moments to see if Ron would add to his answer. His questioning had no apparent strategy, which made his intentions all the more apparent to the ones who understood what he was doing.  
  
As Emily/Petra listened to the seemingly ill prepared cross-examination, she began to understand Casale's thinking. He had nothing on which to impeach Agent Wagner. The man had done his job, done it well, and followed the letter of the law. This shotgun questioning, hitting various topics randomly and repeatedly was meant to confuse the FBI agent. If Casale could make Agent Wagner stumble just once in his answers, he could use that and some other subtle questions to make the man appear incompetent and undermine his credibility.  
  
Fortunately, Agent Wagner was possessed of a remarkably quick and agile mind, for a man his age, and was able to turn the tables on Casale rather quickly. Instead of just answering the questions, he prefaced each response with, "As I told the court before . . . " to make it appear Casale wasn't listening when he had answered the prosecution's questions.  
  
Emily had been watching the cross examination in amusement for about ten minutes when she noticed the bailiff come slip a note to the judge. She thought the judge would make a very good poker player as she watched his face. She was certain the note was about Moretti because it had come in exactly when she told Harold to deliver it, yet as Judge Greer read it, he betrayed no surprise or confusion whatsoever. He simply refolded the note and put it aside.  
  
After the fourth, "As I told the court before . . . " reply, Dominic Casale snorted at Agent Wagner in frustration and disgust and said, "No further questions, Your Honor."  
  
Looking to the District Attorney, Judge Greer said, "We will hear your redirect in just a moment, Mr. Downs. For now, both counsels, approach the bench, please."  
  
Judge Greer may have had a great poker face, Emily mused, but the two attorneys sure didn't. When they heard his news, DA Conrad Downs grinned smugly and stood taller, chest out and shoulders square. Defense Attorney Dominic Casale, on the other hand, slouched over and stuck his lower lip out, his expression darkening by the moment.  
  
Both lawyers went back to their tables and the Judge asked, "Now, Mr. Downs, would you care to redirect?"  
  
"I have just one question, Your Honor."  
  
"Very well, proceed."  
  
"Agent Wagner, just to confirm for the court the point Mr. Casale seemed so intent on proving, during your investigation, did you, or any agent under your supervision, at any time engage in any illegal or irregular activity to secure evidence against the defendant?"  
  
Ron leaned forward slightly to let the microphone amplify his voice better. "No sir," he said, "the investigation into Vinnie Gaudino's criminal and financial activities went strictly by the book."  
  
Downs looked to the judge and said, "No further questions, Your Honor."  
  
"The witness may step down."  
  
Ron left the stand, but Downs indicated that he should remain in the courtroom rather than leaving for the security office. Confused, Ron slid in the seat beside Steve and Keith.  
  
Judge Greer turned to the right and said, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I remind you that you are not to discuss this case until all the evidence is in. Bailiff, will you show the jury out, please?"  
  
Tony opened the door and motioned them through and down the hall to a private conference room.  
  
"I'm calling a recess, and I want this courtroom cleared," a murmur spread throughout the court and Greer banged his gavel. "I *will* have order in this court." The room fell silent. "I need to see both counsels, Agent Wagner, Deputy Chief Sloan, and Mr. Keith Stephens at the bench now please."  
  
As people got up and moved, two officers came and took Vincent Gaudino into custody again, and Emily just smiled.  
  
  
  
Out in the lobby, Emily maneuvered herself close to her mother and Steven.  
  
"Liv, what do you think is going on?" Emily heard her lover ask.  
  
In a weary tone, she heard her mother say, "Emily is probably up to something," and she felt her heart break.  
  
Steven laughed and said, "I figured that, but what?"  
  
Emily was pleased to hear her mother brighten a little as she replied, "Emily is a clever girl, and it goes far beyond her incredible intelligence. She is highly imaginative and intuitive. My guess is she found some brilliant, overlooked, invisible way into the building and has Moretti stashed a few doors down the hall right now. He's under orders not to come out until Keith, your dad, and Agent Wagner come looking for him because they're the only people she knows she can trust, and she just slipped the judge a note telling him where to find Moretti."  
  
'Oh, Mama,' Emily thought, shocked, 'I always believed you never understood me.'  
  
"She's something else, isn't she?" Steven said.  
  
"Indeed she is," Olivia replied, "and life has been hard for her because of it. I used to wish she'd tone it down to save herself some grief, but she's my daughter and I have always loved her, and now that I know what a fine young woman she has become, I wouldn't have her any other way."  
  
A lump formed in Emily's throat at the pride she heard in her mother's voice, and she had to struggle to catch her breath. She moved away for fear of drawing their attention.  
  
  
  
"The note says he won't show himself unless all three of you are here," Judge Greer said as he entered his chambers, "and you have to frisk everyone else in the room."  
  
Steve was standing closest to the judge, and when Greer raised his arms to be searched, Steve began to feel distinctly uncomfortable.  
  
Ron and Keith each patted down one of the lawyers quickly, but Steve stood still and said, "Uh, Your Honor, you don't mind, do you?" Judge Greer was not a man to trifle with.  
  
"Hell, no, Sloan. Just do it so we can get on with this trial. I have seen enough 'accidental' deaths with Mafia trial witnesses to understand this man's caution."  
  
"Your Honor, I object to your implication that my client is involved in organized crime," Casale said.  
  
"Oh, stow it, Casale," Judge Greer said. "We're in chambers; save your show for the jury. We all know your client is a thief, a thug, and a killer, but I defy you to show that I have ever influenced a jury to believe that."  
  
As Steve finished frisking the judge, a laugh came out of the wall. The six men turned toward the sound, and the grate came flying off the ventilation duct. A briefcase followed it. Then, to their amazement, Giancarlo Moretti came sliding out.  
  
"He is also a pimp, a slaver-trader, a loan shark, a drug dealer, a pornographer, and a rapist," Moretti said as he shed a gray coverall, "but all I can prove is he ran a protection racket and didn't pay his taxes."  
  
"Oh, the LAPD can prove the rest, now, Mr. Moretti," Steve said, casually, "thanks to your advice about dealing with Joey Russo."  
  
Ron and DA Downs stood gaping at the man in shock.  
  
Dominic Casale wanted to object again, but all he could do was sputter and spew as he received a warning look from Judge Greer.  
  
Keith just stood smiling and feeling smug about the man his daughter had brought safely into court. He had told them, but they had to see it to believe it. Em had been one of the good guys all along. 


	23. Star Witness

**(Chapter 23.  Spring Street Courthouse and other locations in LA.  March 28)**

As the crowd milled about in the lobby of the courthouse, Emily worked her way over to Leigh Ann.  The woman was on the phone and she seemed to be deeply involved in a tense conversation.

"That's right," she said.  "The Spring Street Courthouse . . . Yes, Moretti is here . . . I suppose she is, but I haven't seen her . . . I don't know, maybe the Chief is hiding her.  After all, he and her mother are lovers . . . "

Emmy could only imagine the rumors that had been going around since her mom had arrived in LA.  She knew some of the history between her mom and Chief Sloan, and she had guessed at the rest.  Her parents were not the type to heed spiteful gossip, but she didn't know about the Chief and his wife.  She hoped they were handling things ok.  

"As a matter of fact," Leigh Ann continued, "Dr. Stephens has been staying at the Chief's house while he's been off work for his ulcers.  And her husband's been working with the taskforce, and his wife's been working double shifts at Community General . . . I agree, there's simply no telling what's been going on out in Malibu," Leigh Ann said with a spiteful laugh, "It's shameful."

It was all Emmy could do not to strangle the woman on the spot.

"Ok, guys," Moretti said, "I am about ta take a gun outta my jacket.  I don't intend ta use it, so please don't shoot me.  It's Em's, an' she couldn't take it into the courtroom, so she left it wit' me." 

"Em's in the courtroom?"  Keith asked, surprised. 

"Yep." 

"How long?"  Ron asked. 

"Oh, about . . . " Then Moretti gave him a spiteful sneer.  "Do ya think I'm an idiot?  If I tell ya that all ya have ta do is look at the security tapes from the lobby an' ya can narrow it down ta one or two people." 

"Look, Moretti, we're not gonna hurt her," Steve tried to reassure him. 

"Maybe not on purpose, but ya messed things up enough already.  I don't blame her for not trustin' ya." 

Steve sighed, not conceding the point, but not denying it either. 

"How did you get in here?"  Judge Greer wanted to know. 

"If I tell ya that an' somethin' goes wrong," Moretti said, "Em an' I have lost our way out.  Sorry, can't do it."  Then he looked at Keith, he recognized him from Em's description.  "Mr. Stephens, Em is a good kid.  She didn't just save my life; she changed it.  She got me ta take care of myself.  For the first time I can remember, I eat right an' exercise every day.  I can't fix the things I've done wrong, but she's got me believin' I can try to do things right now, ta make up for some of it.  I'm gonna start by backin' her up.  She is here an' she's safe, an' she'll identify herself when she's ready." 

"Ok, Moretti.  Thanks for letting me know she's ok." 

Moretti nodded. 

"All right, gentlemen," Judge Greer said, "are we ready to go back to it?" 

Receiving nods all around he said, "Well, then, get out of my chambers and back to the courtroom."

"Court will reconvene in five minutes," the bailiff called out into the lobby outside Judge Greer's courtroom. 

"Look," Leigh Ann insisted, "the story is here.  I'll tell you more when I find out, but get here.  Now."

"Keith," Steve said as they re-entered the courtroom, "I've got a favor to ask." 

"Go sit with Leigh Ann and keep and eye on her?" 

"Yep." 

"Will do."  Keith walked immediately to the back of the courtroom, limping slightly.  He was still angry with Steve, but as far as he was concerned, the world could stop until Emily was safe. 

"Mind if I sit with you?" 

Leigh Ann looked up surprised.  

"Why, no, not at all." 

"Thanks," Keith smiled woodenly and hoped she'd write it off to his worry.  "I just can't sit with your boss anymore.  He's too tense.  All those lights on the back of his hand keep blinking red and yellow like a damned Christmas tree.  It's driving me nuts." 

Leigh Ann smiled.  "He gets that way sometimes, and it was bad enough before the lights.  That's why I'm not sitting with him now.  He's very worried about your daughter.  He likes her a lot." 

Something in the smile, and in the way she said 'your daughter' gave Keith a chill and made his legs ache.

At 10:20, the trial resumed.  Ron was now in the security room, and Cheryl and Al Cioffi were in the courtroom.  While Steve trusted Ron implicitly, _Even though he's a Fed_, he felt much more at ease to have two of his own people in the room with him, and as a result, most of the lights on the glove were green.  Al was sitting in the back with Leigh Ann and Keith, and Cheryl was with Liv and Steven.  Fortunately, Moretti's testimony wasn't as mind-numbingly dull as Ron's had been, Steve realized with a relieved smile, and he didn't need one of his colleagues to help him stay awake. 

Moretti's story wasn't anything dramatic, either, much to Steve's surprise.  He just explained events in a chronological order, telling how he had first met Vincent Gaudino over forty years ago, how he had gotten involved in the organization, and how he had become a part of the protection racket and money laundering schemes.  Then he told how he had gotten access to both sets of Gaudino's financial records, and when and how he had decided to approach Agent Wagner. 

Steve was relieved that Moretti hadn't mentioned his son and grandson's being cops as part of his motivation to turn state's evidence.  Not only would the press take that story and run with it, creating a scandal where there was none, but also, he was afraid if the whole truth came out now, Cioffi and his son might be unwilling to help protect the aging mobster. 

When the prosecution brought forth the documents Moretti had in the briefcase explaining the organizational structure of Gaudino's syndicate and Gaudino's financial dealings, the judge interrupted. 

Looking at the defense attorney, he said, "Mr. Casale, I assume you are going to object." 

"Most strenuously, Your Honor." 

Judge Greer looked to the prosecution, "And you will offer a rebuttal, Mr. Downs?" 

"Several, Your Honor, if need be." 

Greer nodded and said, "Bailiff, please remove the jury from the courtroom." 

Emily was enjoying watching Judge Greer work.  She thought she could really like the man if she ever got the chance to know him.  He was professionalism personified.  She was particularly impressed with the way he anticipated what was to come and forestalled any discussion or displays of evidence that could later be claimed to have inappropriately influenced the jury.  She had done some reading on him, and had found that he had a reputation for conducting a fast, fair trial, and few appeals of the cases he heard were ever successful.  Now she knew why.  The man knew how to run a courtroom. 

When the jury was gone and the door was closed, Judge Greer looked to the defense and said simply, "Mr. Casale?" 

"Your Honor," Casale began, "as you well know, the law requires that all evidence the prosecution plans to present must be made available to the defense before the trial in ample time to allow said defense to prepare to dispute said evidence, if possible.  As this is the first time this defense has ever laid eyes on these documents . . . " 

"Mr. Casale," the judge interrupted, "do not think to school me on the law, which, I am sure you know, demands 'sufficient' time, not 'ample'."  He leveled the younger man with narrowed eyes and a gaze of laser intensity.  In a voice that could have cut steel, he then said, "Just make your objection and stop talking." 

Emily smiled inwardly.  It seemed Greer also had little patience for foolishness and grandstanding. 

Crestfallen, the young lawyer replied, "The defense has never seen these documents.  We have not been allowed time to prepare a response." 

The judge looked to the DA.  His expression was stern, but not as forbidding as it had been with the defense attorney.  He liked Mr. Downs.  The young man knew how to get to the point. 

"Your Honor," Downs said as he leafed through his notes, "on . . . June 14, 2032, Giancarlo Moretti approached FBI Agent Ron Wagner with photocopies of the documents we plan to present.  In exchange for producing the original documents from which these copies were made and answering all of the prosecutions' questions in this trial and other pending matters, he asked to be placed in the witness protection program and requested immunity from prosecution for all crimes he may have committed prior to his testimony in this trial.  Based on the information in Mr. Moretti's photocopies, I agreed to his terms.  Until today, I had not seen the original documents myself, but a second set of copies was provided for the defense the day the warrants were issued and the charges filed." 

"I see," the judge said.  "Mr. Casale?" 

"Your Honor," Casale began pompously, "while I am sure the prosecution is eagerly willing to trust their star witness . . . " 

"The point, Mr. Casale," Judge Greer interrupted. 

A few chuckles were heard throughout the courtroom, but they were quickly silenced by a glare from the judge.  Emmy concentrated hard on frowning, after all, she had made herself up to look like a friend of the defendant, and she should not be pleased by Casale's difficulties. 

Casale sighed and frowned.  "The defense is not satisfied that the originals about to be presented are actually the originals of the documents we were provided.  We have not had time to verify that they contain the same information." 

"I see.  Very well.  Mr. Casale, bring me your copies, and Mr. Downs, bring me yours." 

Both attorneys did as instructed, and they stood at the bench for several moments while the judge flipped through all three sets of documents.  Then Judge Greer motioned the lawyers away. 

Turning to the witness for the prosecution, he said, "Mr. Moretti, when did you copy these ledgers and organizational charts for Agent Wagner?" 

"Two days before I met with him, sir." 

"So if you met with him on . . . " 

The judge looked to the prosecuting attorney who supplied, "June 14th." 

"Thank you, June 14th, then you copied the ledgers on June 12th, correct?" 

"Yes, sir.  Mr. Gaudino had gone ta Las Vegas for the weekend, so I was able ta get into the office without bein' seen." 

"I see.  And then you returned the ledgers to their proper places until you were certain the district attorney would agree to immunity and protection, is that correct?" 

"Yes, sir.  I got an answer right away, but it was another month before I could get into the office ta take the books, sometime in July.  Mr. Gaudino had gone ta Vegas for the weekend again.  The office always shuts down when he goes away for the weekend." 

Emmy was pleased to hear Moretti refer to the defendant as 'Mr. Gaudino'.  By showing the defendant respect, it made Moretti more sympathetic.  Even though the jury wasn't here to see it, they would sense it from the audience when they returned.  Gaudino was a powerful man, and Moretti looked like just a guy trying to do the right thing 

"I see.  Thank you."  Addressing the court, Judge Greer gave his ruling.  "I am satisfied that these documents are the same as the copies used by both the defense and the prosecution, the only difference being the additional entries made in the month that lapsed between Mr. Moretti's first meeting with Agent Wagner and the day he acquired the journals. . ." 

"But, Your Honor . . ." 

"Do not interrupt me, Mr. Casale!" 

The Mob lawyer hushed and Judge Greer went on. 

"Before we resume, I will make copies of the new entries for both the defense and the prosecution," he said, "but as they only represent business as usual, I can't see how they will make any significant difference in either prosecution or defense strategies." 

Casale was fuming, and his body language revealed his agitation.  Judge Greer looked at him and asked archly, "You have something to add?" 

Emily had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.  The Judge was finally revealing some genuine irritation with the defense attorney, and his tone had been that of a schoolteacher dealing with an unruly child. 

"Yes, Your Honor," Casale barked, "we will have no idea how this new evidence will alter our strategy until we have had a chance to review it.  I would like to request a continuance until we have had time to examine the documents in question." 

"Denied," the judge said in an offhand manner.  "If I am wrong, then you will have grounds for an appeal, something that doesn't happen often in this courtroom.  If I am right, which is usually the case, then you have no need for a continuance.  Either way, this case will proceed today."  

Greer's absolute confidence in his ruling heartened Emily.  The man was completely committed to the law and justice, and like a rock, he was immovable.  If she didn't know better, she might have suspected he'd been here before the courthouse and they had built the courtroom around him.

He shifted his gaze to include the DA in his next statement and said, "Gentlemen, if you will come with me, we can copy the new pages now and move on."  Turning to the witness, he said, "Mr. Moretti, you may step down for a few minutes, but when we return, you will be back on the stand and you will still be under oath, do you understand?" 

"Yes, Your Honor."

Having no one but Emily there to chat with, Moretti elected to stay where he was while the judge and lawyers were out of the room.  He looked to Emily, and had to admit, if he hadn't seen her in her costume earlier, he'd never have recognized her now, except for the eyes.  He couldn't understand how anyone could miss those gold and green eyes.  

The kid looked miserable.  He could tell she was in physical pain, and, with it getting close to eleven thirty, he figured her painkillers were probably wearing off.  She also looked incredibly sad, and he could only imagine how hard it must be for her to sit there, just feet from her parents, and not be able to reach out to them for support and comfort.  He admired her strength and appreciated her determination to see him through this ordeal, but he wished she would just give in and go to her family so he could stop feeling so guilty for her misery. 

His gaze drifted to Vinnie Gaudino, who gave him an oily smile and pointed at him, his hand in the shape of a gun.  He could have argued to anyone who accused him of threatening a witness that it was just a greeting to an old friend who was, unfortunately, being forced by circumstances beyond his control to testify against his will, but when Gaudino jerked his hand in imitation of the recoil from firing a bullet, Moretti got the message loud and clear. 

Next, he looked to Em's mother.  She was easy to spot, a miniature version of her daughter.  The woman sat quietly, wringing her hands and rocking slightly, staring ahead.  He could tell her last, frayed nerve was being plucked, and she wouldn't be able to cope with much more.  He wouldn't be surprised to see her sedated and removed in restraints before the day was out.  He hoped she didn't bear him any ill will, because he thought she could be quite formidable when motivated by concern for her daughter. 

The man beside her had to be Deputy Chief Sloan's son.  The kid was about Emmy's age, but he looked younger and a hell of a lot more innocent.  Suddenly he wondered how much Emmy had aged while she'd been with him.  She hadn't been as fresh-faced and open as Sloan's kid when she'd kidnapped him, but he knew the past few weeks had made her even more cynical. 

He recognized Commander Banks from the ambush at the first safe house, and was glad she had recovered from her injury.  He hadn't had much experience of her, but Emmy had trusted her.  He wondered if she had any other connection to Emmy's parents. 

He saw his son, Al, sitting toward the back with Emmy's father.  To Al, this was clearly just another job.  Moretti was glad of that.  He didn't want to worry his own child the way Em's parents were worried about her.  For a moment, he was slightly bitter, realizing he had no one to worry about him, then he felt sad, wondering if his own son actually would worry about him if he knew their relationship.  Then with a sigh, he reminded himself that he had created the situation himself.  If he lived to see tomorrow, there would be plenty of time to resolve it, but right now, he had a job to do. 

Al was trying hard to engage Emmy's father in conversation, but the other man seemed reluctant to respond.  To Moretti, he looked worried, pissed off, and in pain.  Al chattered on beside him, undeterred by the monosyllabic responses he received.  A woman in her late thirties who sat to Keith Stephens' left fidgeted uneasily for a moment then got up and left the courtroom, opening a cell phone as she went.  

A few minutes later, the young woman returned.  Then Judge Greer and the lawyers came in.  The jury was shown back to the jury box, and the trial resumed.

As the DA brought out the business ledgers, the defense attorney came to his feet. 

"Your Honor, I must object.  It is unfair to allow the prosecution to use these documents without giving the defense time to peruse them." 

Judge Greer stared at the man for fully fifteen seconds, clearly trying to reign in his temper before he replied.  Moretti admired him for that.  As the judge, he didn't have to mind his tongue, but he was a professional and had enough respect for the law and court proceedings to comport himself appropriately despite the fact that he was the one person in the room free to speak and act just as he pleased.  

"Mr. Casale," he finally said, voice tight with restrained fury.  "Your objection has been duly noted and overruled again."  

He turned to the jury and said, "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I want you to be aware that while you were out, I heard arguments regarding the validity of the evidence about to be presented."  He explained the arguments regarding the paperwork and his ruling on them to the jury.  

"Both sides have had equal access to all the evidence in this case, and Mr. Casale is well aware of that."  Looking to the defense attorney, he concluded, "He is also well aware of the fact that he is dangerously close to facing contempt charges if he again interrupts these proceedings with an objection on which I have already issued a ruling." 

Taking the hint, Casale nodded and sat, shoulders slumped, beside his client. 

For the next hour, Moretti explained the two sets of books and how Gaudino would launder his money through a number of different schemes.  Some of it, a few million a month, even went through a fixed high stakes roulette table at one of his colleague's casinos in Vegas.  In an organization the size of Gaudino's, that few million was really small change, but getting the indictment on that charge had made the DA salivate, because it meant they would have the chance to prove that Vinnie Gaudino himself had handled the dirty money. 

Moretti explained how prefixes on the various numeric transaction codes in the ledgers indicated which overseas accounts or illegal businesses the money had been sent to, and then he matched up a few of the false deposits with the deposits in the real ledger to demonstrate how the system worked.  The five transactions that he demonstrated added up to several hundred million dollars. 

"So, Mr. Moretti," the prosecutor asked, "how much money would you estimate Mr. Gaudino has hidden away over the years?" 

"Objection!"  Casale shouted.  "The witness is not an accountant, he has no way of knowing." 

"Your Honor, the witness has just demonstrated that he does have a way of knowing.  He understands the accounting system the defendant has been using for the past thirty years." 

"Overruled, Mr. Casale," the judge said blandly, "the witness may answer the question." 

Moretti shook his head.  "Over the years?  I couldn't begin ta guess . . . " 

Casale looked pleased for a moment, as if Moretti had just proven his point, but he was seriously disappointed as Moretti continued. 

". . . but I know there were days when he did over a billion dollars worth of business." 

"You mean one or two days over the course of thirty years?" the DA asked. 

Moretti shook his head and made a thoughtful face. 

"No, I'd say every month or so there'd be a big day.  It didn't start addin' up ta billions until about ten years ago, but once it started, it was a pretty regular thing.  Even before he was handlin' that much in one day, he had billions in the bank  . . . After the quake in '05, when the final damage estimates came out, we figured he could have paid for all the reconstruction, but he didn't want ta have ta hurt the governor when he started missin' payments." 

"Those estimates were for hundreds of billions of dollars, weren't they?" 

"Yeah.  Two, three hundred billion, somethin' like that." 

"I see, and were you serious in what you said?  Is that really the scale of his business?" 

"It was thirty years ago," Moretti explained.  "We were serious about the money, but jokin' about the governor.  There was no way Vinnie Gaudino would lend his money out ta help rebuild LA from the goodness of his heart, there isn't any there.  He'd want a piece of the action, a little bit of everythin', and he knew he wouldn't get it if he worked through the state." 

"Objection, Your Honor," Casale put in.  "The witness has no way of knowing what was in my client's heart." 

As the judge said, "Sustained," Moretti said, "The witness has no way of knowin' if your client has a heart." 

"Your Honor!" 

This time Judge Greer spoke over Casale's objections. 

"Mr. Moretti, you will confine your remarks to answering the questions posed to you or you will be found in contempt of court, do you understand?" 

"Yes, sir," Moretti said, "I apologize, sir." 

By the time Moretti had finished explaining the organizational structure of Gaudino's syndicate and had described how the money was funneled in from all over the Western United States, it was 12:30.  Judge Greer ordered him to step down, and the DA indicated a vacant seat in the crowd next to Deputy Chief Sloan.  As he sat, Moretti noticed the man was wearing a clear plastic device the covered the back of his right hand and seemed to go up his arm under the shirtsleeve.  It had a small electronic panel on the back of his hand with red, yellow, and green lights, and Moretti figured it was some kind of high-tech communications gear.  Greer then called a two-hour lunch break and said the Defense could begin its cross examination when court reconvened. 

"Gentlemen," he addressed both lawyers as he stood to leave, "if you will contact my clerk when you decide where you are going for lunch, she will send you both complete copies of the documents Mr. Moretti delivered today for your perusal during this long lunch.  If you fail to do so, it will be the determination of this court that you are stipulating to the fact that the documents are the same as those you have already seen, and you have chosen to forgo this opportunity I have created for you to review them.  Is that clear?" 

The DA's shoulders slumped, then, for the first time in the trial.  

"Yes, sir," he said.  "I will be going back to my office for lunch, sir, but I'll wait here for the documents." 

"As will I, Your Honor," Defense Attorney Casale said. 

Judge Greer smiled and said, "Very well, gentlemen.  Glad to hear it."

Moretti sat beside Chief Sloan for a few moments, not sure what he was supposed to do.  He figured someone had already made plans for him for lunch, but he didn't want to sound like he was expecting to receive any special favors, so he didn't ask.  Soon, Commander Banks and Captain Cioffi, _my son_, Moretti couldn't help thinking, came to join the Chief, then Sloan turned to him and spoke. 

"Mr. Moretti," he began, "at Agent Wagner's request, we will be having a meal brought in.  I am part owner of BBQ Bob's, and my goddaughter, Lauren, will be preparing our meals, so we can be sure the food is safe.  What would you like for lunch?" 

After a little thought, Moretti said, "Do you do chicken?" 

The Deputy Chief nodded. 

"Ok, how about a marinated skinless chicken breast, grilled, with a baked potato, non-fat sour cream, and a chef's salad with light Italian dressing?" 

At Sloan's questioning look, Moretti smiled weakly and said, "Emily . . . I mean, Lieutenant Stephens . . . well . . . she put me on a diet.  That is, she figured if I were in better shape, it would be easier for her to keep me alive, so she put me on a diet and got me started working out.  I feel better now that I did twenty years ago, and I figure if I can stick with it through the trial, I'll be able to keep it up for good." 

Moretti left the courtroom surrounded by cops and feeling distinctly uncomfortable with the idea that here were more good people, like Em, willing to risk their lives for his safety.  There was a difference, though, and he knew it.  Em actually cared about him now, and these people only wanted his testimony.

Leigh Ann had managed to sneak a look at the inventory of stuff that had been taken from Mr. Gorini's place, and as she had suspected, one tape was missing.  She smiled to herself, knowing what she would do with that later.  Right now, though, she just wanted to make a few suggestions. 

As Lenny Murdoch approached, she glanced around furtively, as if seeking somewhere to hide.  Taking him by the arm, she ducked around the corner, and said dramatically, "What are you trying to do, get me fired, or killed?" 

"Huh?  Oh, sorry.  I didn't realize it was all that serious." 

_Which is why you're still freelance._

"Yeah, well it is.  One of the tapes has gone missing.  I think I know who took it, and I'll see if I can get it for you." 

"Ok.  Do you have any idea what's on it?" 

"Something about the Chief and Lieutenant Stephens, from the rumors I heard.  Maybe they were in cahoots about Moretti all along." 

"But Moretti got here safely." 

"Doesn't mean he'll stay safe," Leigh Ann pointed out, thinking fast.  "Maybe they'll let him testify against Gaudino and then due to a tragic breach of security, he'll die on his way to the safe house before exposing them." 

"Exposing them for what?" 

_Do I have to come up with **everything**?  _"I don't know!"  She snapped.  "You're the investigative reporter.  Investigate!" 

"Yeah," Lenny agreed, "yeah, I will, but do me a favor." 

At her, 'Well what do you want,' look he continued. 

"Promise when you get that tape, you'll give it to no one but me." 

"If I think I am in danger, I will give it to the first reporter I see, because whatever they're up to, it has to be exposed.  After the scandals three years ago, I thought my boss was as honest as the clear blue sky, and now that I know differently, I feel as if I have been betrayed.  I have to do what I can to stop him.  If I think I can safely wait, I will give it to you." 

Lenny thought a moment.  "Ok, fair enough." 

_Something about the Chief and me?  On tape?_  Emily thought from where she was lurking around the corner.  _That has **got** to be interesting._

At one thirty, Moretti sat in the FBI offices, still picking at his grilled chicken, baked potato, and salad.  The meal was excellent, and he would have been enjoying it, too, if he hadn't felt so much like an outsider.  It was clear that these people had been together for a while.  He knew Sloan and Commander Banks had been together since the old days, before the quake, and, if the half finished sentences and inside jokes were any indication, Agent Wagner seemed to have a close relationship with them, too.  From information Agent Wagner had given him on his son's service record, Al, had served under Sloan's supervision for his entire career, and as far as Moretti could tell, that was a very good thing. 

Even Em's mother who seemed hardly the type to hang out with a bunch of hard-boiled cops, was part of this tight circle, but then, she also seemed the type of person who was welcome anywhere.  She hadn't spoken to him yet, but he could tell she was very kind and pleasant.  Em's father, on the other hand, looked like a sky about to storm.  He was directing a lot of hostility toward his wife, which Moretti found particularly annoying.  Every time Keith Stephens snapped at the worried mother, Moretti wanted to deck him.  He was also glaring at Sloan a lot, and Moretti figured it was a matter of pride.  Emmy hadn't told him much, but he knew her mother and the Deputy Chief had been a couple for a while years ago. 

After a while, Sloan's son and three other young men joined them.  _Well, one man, and a couple of kids, really._  The oldest wore a captain's insignia on his uniform, and shook hands heartily with the others round the table as he sat. 

"The Lakers' play tonight against the Celtics," he said.  "What are their odds?" 

"Zero," Sloan said.  "Dion, they haven't got a chance now that Bird the Third is off the bench." 

"You really think so, Pops?"  Sloan's kid asked. 

"I do, son.  You should have seen his granddad in '84.  It took them seven games, but with Bird at forward, the Celtics beat the Lakers in the NBA Championship." 

"Oh, I remember that," Agent Wagner said with enthusiasm, "Those were some classic games between Bird and Magic Johnson.  They really put the game on the map, took it to a whole new level, and paved the way for Jordan, Shaq, and Rodman." 

Dion laughed and shook his head, "Guys, quit living in the past.  Even Jordan, Shaq, and Rodman haven't played in thirty years.  What makes you think the great games of yesteryear will have any bearing on tonight's game." 

The chief and Agent Wagner looked at each other and shrugged.  "We're not saying it does," Agent Wagner said.  "Bird is good in his own right, just as his dad and granddad were.  We're just saying there's a lot of history there." 

"Uh-huh," Sloan junior said, grinning wickedly, "and at your age it's easier to remember a basketball game from forty or fifty years ago than it is to remember what you had for breakfast, right?" 

Most of the people in the room laughed, but Chief Sloan and Agent Wagner just looked at him, stone faced, and turned away.  The two kids who had come in with Captain Dion and the younger Sloan just looked nervous, Moretti noticed.  _Probably tryin' ta decide whether it's safe ta laugh at their chief._

"Ya know, kid, it actually has more ta do with tonight's game than ya might think," Moretti said. 

Everyone turned to look at him as it was the first time he'd spoken since they'd come up to the FBI offices.  It made Moretti feel distinctly uncomfortable.  Dion coolly extended his hand and said, "Captain Dion Bentley-Wagner, Mr. Moretti." 

Shaking the proffered hand, Moretti said, "Agent Wagner's son." 

"Yes.  And this is Steven Sloan, Chief Sloan's son.  What makes you think their nostalgia has anything to do with the game tonight?"

"Bird the Third was on the DL with a bad back, right?" 

"Yeah." 

"Same thing happened ta Little Larry in 2013 and Larry Sr. in 1992.  Look for him ta be a little slow tonight." 

"You really think so?"  Steven Sloan asked. 

"Bet on it." 

The elder Sloan looked at him, then, and asked, "Did you ever do much betting, Moretti?  Maybe you ran numbers as a kid or managed one of Gaudino's betting parlors?" 

Not sure if the man was trying to antagonize him or not, Moretti studied his hands as he answered. 

"If I did any of that, it was the least of my crimes."  Deciding to face the cop who had finally questioned him like the crook he was, he looked up and continued earnestly, "Fact is, I'm ashamed of the things I've done in the past, but they're in the past.  I know sayin' that won't put right everythin' I've done wrong, but I gotta start somewhere, and here is as good a place as any.  I'm sorry decent people like you and Emmy," he included the rest of the cops, "all of ya, have had ta risk your lives ta get me here so I could testify against a slime like Vinnie Gaudino, but I'm also grateful ta have the chance.  I don't expect any of ya ta believe me, but, the time I have left, I plan ta spend it doin' the right thing for a change." 

Moretti stopped talking, and the room lapsed into uncomfortable silence.  For several minutes, the only sounds were the noise of utensils against plates, chewing, and swallowing.  Moretti noticed that all of Sloan's little lights were red now, and he wondered what that meant and why he didn't seem worried about it.  Then, a strange thing happened.  Emmy's mother put a hand on his arm and squeezed gently.  When Moretti looked up at her, she smiled, and the tension eased. 

"Y'know, Dad," one of the younger officers started to speak, but when captain Cioffi cleared his throat, he stuttered, stammered, and started again.  "Uh, I mean Captain Cioffi, sir." 

Getting a smile, the kid grinned and went on, "There seem to be quite a few reporters out there." 

"Really?"  Captain Cioffi said, "I hadn't noticed." 

The kid shrugged.  "Maybe they weren't here earlier, but they seem to be onto a story.  Has anything especially interesting happened here today?" 

The elder Cioffi rolled his eyes and seemed to consider.  "Other than Gaudino's trial, Moretti dropping in through a heating vent in Judge Greer's chambers, and Lieutenant Stephens sneaking about in some get-up the facial recognition program can't screen through, no, nothing special." 

The younger cop grinned and said, "So, just another day at the office, huh?" 

Moretti grinned, too.  _That's my grandson.  Good lookin' kid.  Now, who's the redhead? _

As if he had read Moretti's mind, Sloan introduced the two young men. 

"Mr. Moretti, this is Officer Alfredo Cioffi," he pointed to the young man who had spoken, "and this is Officer Charles Donovan," he indicated the redhead.  The two young men were too far away to easily shake hands, but each nodded politely as Sloan continued to speak.  

"They helped form the plans we will be using for your protection, and their job is to get you out of here in case of trouble.  So, if anything goes wrong, and I mean _anything,_ you just do what they tell you.  They'll keep you safe." 

Moretti sized up the two young men, shining proudly like two freshly polished brass buttons, and nodded.  He knew Sloan's record, and didn't think the man would give such praise to a couple of rookies if it weren't fully due them. 

For about the next hour or so, the conversation bounced around among the two Sloans, Banks, Wagner and his son, and Al Cioffi.  As the two generations of law enforcement chatted about cars, politics, grandchildren or the lack thereof, and the Lakers' chances against the Celtics, Moretti watched the people in the room some more. 

Sloan senior's little lights were green again, and when he saw the younger Sloan glance at them and smile, Moretti suddenly realized they weren't for communication at all.  He wasn't sure what they were for, but it had something to do with Sloan himself, he was sure of that, and since Sloan junior was a doctor, they probably monitored his health. 

Wagner and son clearly enjoyed sharing one another's company, along with that of their friends, and Moretti found himself aching for that kind of feeling with his own son.  Sadly he realized that, not only was his son three feet away from him and didn't know it, but Moretti had no friends left whose company he and his kid could enjoy.  Hell, he had no friends, period.  People had respected and feared him in his day, and now people were protecting him, but even Emmy, who seemed to like him wasn't really his friend.  She just found him inoffensive. 

Determined to stop feeling sorry for himself, Moretti watched the others in the room with more intensity.  His grandson and the redhead seemed delighted just to be in the same room as the other cops, and, though Sloan and company seemed oblivious to it, Moretti could see the hero worship in their eyes as they simply sat and listened.  He wished he was the kind of man his grandson could admire like that, but he knew there was slim chance of anyone ever having such deep veneration for him. 

Commander Banks had an easy relationship with Sloan and Captain Bentley-Wagner, but she was a little more guarded with Agent Wagner.  _Probably doesn't know him as well_.  She gave as good as she got when they joked back and forth and stood her ground on any serious issues they discussed, no matter how hard the guys hammered at her arguments.  It was clear that she and Sloan shared a deep and long-standing affection for one another, and Moretti remembered well the image of them, standing together on that car, facing down a mob of thousands, a few friends at their side, and a hundred cops behind them.  

There had been a moment on that video clip, before Sloan addressed the crowd, which had touched even Moretti's hardened heart.  Sloan had looked at her and she had nodded slightly.  He smiled faintly, and faced the mob.  Moretti had known in that moment, without a word passing between them, that they had agreed to live or die together on that spot.  Now, thirty years later, he found himself longing for just one friend like that. 

Giving himself a mental shake, he turned away from the cops to watch Emily's parents.  Her mother had finished her meal and sat nervously twisting her paper napkin until it tore in half.  Then she started on one of the halves.  Eventually, it was just a pile of tatters on the table in front of her.  With nothing left to occupy her hands, she turned to cleaning up.  First, she gathered up all the little handy-wipes that had come with the ribs and barbecue and stuck the packets in her purse. 

Moretti chuckled to himself.  Habits like that had probably driven Emmy nuts when she was a child.  Her mother had probably been just as irritated every time Emmy had thrown something away that might be useful later.  _Every family has a pack rat and a thrower outer_.  Moretti wondered how he could know that.  He'd never had a family. 

He sighed deeply, surprised at how hard it was to avoid self-pity.  As Dr. Stephens continued clearing the table, he looked to Emmy's father and felt cheered.  The man was still sulking and looking daggers from his wife to Sloan.  Every now and then, he said a few snappish words, but mostly he just glowered.  Though the others ignored his foul mood, probably writing it off to nerves and worry for his child, Moretti was pissed with the man for being so utterly useless to his distraught wife, and that banished his gloominess.  Maybe later, he'd mention it, but now didn't seem the time. 

Watching Keith Stephens and imagining telling him off made the time pass quickly, and before Moretti knew it, it was time to go back to the courtroom.  Agent Wagner left first, for the security office.  Then Em's parents and Steven Sloan headed down.  Finally, the cops formed a wall around Moretti, and they moved to the FBI's secure elevator together.

"Look, I'm working on it," Leigh Ann whispered harshly.  "Cioffi and Donovan were the last ones with access to the evidence.  I think I can get the tape from one of them.  Just give me some time." 

"Court will reconvene in ten minutes." 

"I have to go before we are seen together.  I'll be in touch." 

Emmy turned toward the phone as Leigh Ann walked by.  When she had entered the courtroom, Em turned to the reporter Leigh Ann had been talking to and said in a deep, accented voice, "Do not trust her.  That one is treacherous." 

"Huh?" 

"If she were honest, she would tell the world, not lurk about in corners spreading rumors." 

"She is afraid for her life," Lenny Murdoch defended his source. 

"Or her wallet." 

"Huh?" 

"How much would the _LA Times_ pay for the tape she has promised you?"

Leigh Ann smiled secretly as she took her seat in the back of the courtroom.  With that buffoon Lenny Murdoch clumsily 'researching' the relationship between Chief Sloan and Lieutenant Stephens, half the reporters in LA would be here by the end of the trial.  After the verdict, Sloan would be dead, she would turn over the tape, and his family would be devastated by rumors of incest.  On second thought, she would turn over the tape before the jury began deliberations.  That would draw more reporters, and there would be more photographers with them to take more pictures of his body being hauled away.

Idly she wondered if she could plead self-defense.  Sure, no one would be directly threatening her, but she was in possession of a tape that could destroy one of the oldest and most respected crime-fighting families in LA.  With Sloan being so high in the department, surely she had every right to be afraid of him.  There was no telling how many cops would kill for him.  He was a revered leader. 

As Keith took his seat beside Leigh Ann again, his legs began to ache.  There was something disquieting in the woman's eyes.  It reminded him a little of Ted Baer when schizophrenia started stealing his mind years ago.  Not long after that, he became fixated on Olivia and had tried several times to take her by force, willing to kill anyone who got in the way.  _So, who is this woman obsessed with?  Who is she willing to destroy?_

Moretti shifted uneasily in his seat, getting ready for a rough ride.  He knew the defense would try to tear him apart.  The judge reminded him he was under oath, and the questions began. 

"Mr. Moretti," Casale began, "would you please remind us of how you and Mr. Gaudino met?" 

"I was a big, strong kid, not too good in school, and my uncle introduced me ta Mr. Gaudino, hopin' I could get a job as a bouncer at one of his clubs." 

"I see, and what did you do before then?" 

"I was…a bill collector." 

"Yes, for a Mr. Gianni DiBona, is that right?" 

"Yes." 

"He was a well-known loan shark wasn't he?" 

"Yes, 'til somebody capped him." 

"Capped as in killed?" 

"Yes." 

"Do you know who killed him?" 

"No." 

"Are you sure?  Mr. Moretti, you are under oath." 

The oily voice made Moretti want to bust Casale's face.

"I think I know, but I could never prove it." 

"Well, Mr. Moretti, why didn't you tell the police?  They might have been able to find Mr. DiBona's killer." 

"Your Honor," DA Downs stood up, "I object.  What bearing does a forty-year-old murder have on today's proceedings?" 

"Goes to credibility, Your Honor.  This witness has a history of being…reluctant…to cooperate with law enforcement.  I want to establish his motives for providing this testimony now." 

Before the judge could rule, Moretti spoke up. 

"Your honor, I think I could save the court some time." 

Looking at the witness as if he had just dropped out of the sky, Judge Greer asked, "How is that, Mr. Moretti?" 

Moretti looked to Casale and said, "By tellin' him everythin' he wants ta hear without all the dancin' around." 

Perplexed, Judge Greer looked to Casale first.  "Mr. Casale, any objections?" 

"None, Your Honor, as long as I still get to cross examine him when he's finished." 

"You will," turning to the DA, Greer said, "Mr. Downs?" 

"No objection, Your Honor, so long as I may still redirect after the cross." 

"You may."  Turning to Moretti, he said, "The witness may proceed." 

Moretti grew thoughtful.  He took a deep breath, and looked to Emmy.  She nodded slightly. 

"I've been a criminal since I was old enough ta know the difference between right and wrong," he began.  "When I was four years old, I stole some money from my mother's purse.  She was passed out drunk at the time, and never knew . . ." 

Casale was on his feet again.  "Mr. Moretti, we are not interested in your tragic childhood.  We want to know why you are testifying here today.  Could you please. . . "  

"Mr. Casale," Judge Greer interrupted.  "You agreed to let the witness testify.  Let him speak." 

"But, Your Honor . . ." 

"Sit down, Mr. Casale!  And be quiet!  You may cross examine when he is finished, but do not interrupt again." 

Casale sat and sulked. 

"Continue, Mr. Moretti," the judge said. 

Moretti nodded and licked his lips nervously.  "From there, I moved on ta shopliftin', petty theft, simple assault, aggravated assault, armed robbery, assault with a deadly weapon," he looked reluctantly at the jury, "and a lot of other things I should go ta hell for."

Moretti studied his nails a moment, then continued. 

"I have a kid who doesn't know me.  His mother knew I was trouble, and ran away when she found out she was pregnant.  I didn't go lookin' for her, though, because I didn't want that kinda responsibility.  I guess she loved me, because she kept the baby.  I've met him before, and my grand kid, too, but they don't know it.  They're good men, no thanks to me." 

Moretti turned to look at the jury. 

"Mr. Casale wants me to say I am here today because the Feds have offered me immunity from prosecution on all the crimes I have committed in the past."  He shrugged.  "That's true, in a way.  I wouldn't be here if I didn't have that guarantee and their protection, but there's more to it." 

The courtroom remained silent as he gathered his thoughts. 

"The past month or so, I've realized that I have very little ta be proud of.  I've lost thirty pounds or so in the past few weeks, and I've built up my endurance ta the point where I can run ta the top of a hill in Santa Monica.  Other than that, my life has been a waste.  I don't even have the right ta be proud of my own kid, 'cause I had nothin' ta do with bringin' him up, unless you count stayin' outta the way." 

He took a long moment and met the gaze of every cop in the room.  Sloan was intense, Banks, sympathetic.  Captain Bentley-Wagner was curious.  His son seemed a little disdainful.  His grandson and the redheaded kid were eagerly taking everything in.  Clearly, this was their first big assignment, and they wanted to store everything up in their memory.  And Em?  If Moretti didn't know better, he would swear she looked proud of him.  He took another deep breath before continuing. 

"Last night, I went ta confession for the first time in over forty years, and told the priest what I was plannin' ta do today.  He asked me why, and I gave him a lot of reasons.  Now I realize all of them were pretty weak.  Five minutes ago, I'd have told you I wanted this testimony ta be somethin' I could be proud of, me, alone, on the stand, aware of the danger, and doin' the right thing anyway.  But no decent man would be proud of knowin' what I know, and he sure as hell wouldn't be proud that good people were riskin' their lives ta keep him safe until he could blab about crimes he had no business bein' a part of." 

Moretti looked at the defense attorney again, and finished his speech. 

"So, Mr. Casale, I guess the only reason I am here is that Vincent Gaudino is an evil man.  I have information that can put him in jail, and yes, in exchange for my testimony, I got a deal that keeps me out of prison." 

Moretti was done testifying by 3:45.  Casale's cross-examination went quickly because most of his questions were meant to undermine Moretti's credibility, and every time he asked one, DA Downs objected.  When Casale argued that it went to credibility of the witness, Greer overruled him, once even saying, "He's already admitted he's a lying, thieving, violent criminal, who struck a deal to get off scot-free.  What more do you need?" 

In a surprise move, the DA's office stipulated to every statement and piece of evidence the defense had scheduled to present, effectively shutting them down. Since Gaudino could accomplish nothing by taking the stand in his own defense, the judge moved to closing arguments by four. 

Moretti almost felt sorry for Dominic Casale.  The kid was a good lawyer, but having Gaudino's original books made the case open and shut.  The best the young man could hope for was an easy sentence due to his client's advancing age, and a day's head start before Gaudino put a hit out on him.  By 4:30, the jury had left to deliberate the case.

As they waited in the FBI offices, drinking endless cups of bad coffee, Moretti moved to sit beside Em's mother.  She looked at him, smiled weakly, and nodded. 

"Dr. Stephens . . . " 

"Please, call me Olivia, or Liv." 

"Ok.  Olivia.  Emmy's ok.  She was in the courtroom again after lunch, and she's all right.  She misses ya, but she's fine now." 

Liv smiled.  "She must like you.  She hates being called Emmy." 

"Really?"  Moretti was surprised.  "I didn't know that." 

"Oh.  Maybe it's just me, then." 

The woman had been on the verge of tears since the moment he'd laid eyes on her, and now, finally, on teardrop escaped.  She caught it in her tissue, took a deep breath, rolled her eyes, and nodded, apparently deciding then and there that she would shed no more tears. 

Moretti covered her hand with is own and squeezed gently. 

"She loves ya very much, Liv, and she knows she was not an easy child, and she knows ya did your best, and she forgives ya for your mistakes.  Ya did a good job with her.  I'm livin' proof." 

Finally, the dam broke, and the tears let go.  Olivia drew up her legs and hid her face against her knees and sobbed.  As he sat there, rubbing her back softly and watching her husband glare at him from across the room, he couldn't help but wonder why the man was being such an ass and wouldn't come comfort his wife at a time like this.

"Stop the presses!"  Lenny Murdoch shouted as he walked into the offices of the _LA Times_.  People laughed at him, more than they usually did when he came through the door with a story, but this time, he'd show them.  He walked straight into Genevieve Reynolds' office and told the editor-in-chief, "I have a scoop that will blow you away."  Tossing the tape and the hard copy of his story on her desk, he said, "The tape's a copy, but I can provide the original on demand." 

Genevieve read the lead, slipped the tape into her player, and a minute later, called the pressroom.  "Howie," she said, surprising herself, "Stop the presses.  We have a new front page.  Here's the headline:  'Sloan Dirty:  Covered for Love Child When Federal Witness Kidnapped'."

Emmy couldn't figure out what was going on, and it really had her pissed.  Whatever Leigh Ann was up to, it was drawing more and more media coverage to the courthouse.  Word was out that the _LA Times_ had stopped their presses for a story that was expected to break here, and now, television crews were setting up on the street.  She had a very bad feeling about this.

"Yes, sir.  ASAP, sir.  I will, sir."  Ron clicked his cell phone shut. 

"What was that about?"  Steve asked. 

"It was nothing.  Nothing that matters now, anyway." 

The phone rang again. 

"Agent Wagner . . .ok . . . We're on our way."  He closed his phone and looked around.  "Jury's back."

As Ron fought through the crowd in the lobby, he remembered to be eternally grateful that the building had a secure elevator and a private entrance for important witnesses and officers of the court.  There was no way Steve and his people would have been able to keep Moretti safe in this mass of humanity. 

He wondered why all the reporters were here, though.  True, he had been busy tracking Em and Moretti, but he couldn't believe he'd missed something so big it would have the press overrunning the courthouse.  The Gaudino trial was only a big thing for the FBI.  Most of America didn't know Vinnie Gaudino from Adam and couldn't care less what he did with his money or how he got it.  So, what was the story?  He stopped a reporter and asked. 

"Dunno," the young man said, "but the _LA Times_ stopped the presses and sent three of its best here, so the rest of us figure it must be big.  After all, the evening edition is supposed to hit the stands in forty minutes, and they gotta have one hell of a story if they are willing to risk being late."

Ron made a quick check of the security office to be sure all the equipment was working and that the paramedics had their gear ready just in case.  He wished the high rises weren't so close around the courthouse that they prevented a helicopter landing.  In fact, times like these, he wised every federal building in the country had a helipad.  Finally, he fought his way back to the courtroom.  He wanted to be there for the verdict.  Then, he would go back to the office and the team would move Moretti and Em.

"The jury has reached a verdict," a voice called over the commotion.  "Court will reconvene in five minutes." 

Emily sighed with relief.  It was over.  She made her way excitedly to the courtroom, determined to speak to her parents before the jury came in.

"Mama!  Daddy!" she called as she entered the room. 

She saw her mother look around and her heart sank when she looked right past her.  Remembering her disguise, she said, "Right here, Mama!" 

She rushed toward her parents tearing her wig off and undoing her braid as she went, and when she reached them, she let them wrap her an a hug. 

"Oh, Emmy!  Oh, thank God.  Oh, thank God, you're safe."  Liv was crying in earnest now, tears of joy and relief. 

Ron waved a couple of his undercover men over but had them stand back for a minute, letting Em and her parents have this moment. 

Stepping back from the hug, tears in her own eyes, Emmy grinned and said, "Thank Moretti, too, Mama, he could have made it a lot harder than it was, but he followed directions and cooperated.  If he hadn't, I wouldn't be here.  Do you have something I could use to wipe away this make-up?" 

Nodding, Liv reached into her purse and handed her several wet naps with the BBQ Bob's logo on them.  Charles Donovan and 'Fredo Cioffi, and several dozen strangers who had been astounded when the prim Italian woman had started calling for Mama and Daddy and tearing her hair off to reveal voluminous red curls were now dumbstruck to see the wrinkles, age spots, and facial hair go with a few swipes of a disposable wash cloth.  The pretty, smiling, freckled face still showed signs of the recent strain, but the expression was overwhelmingly happy. 

Steven Sloan wrapped an arm around her waist as she finished cleaning herself up and he pressed a kiss to her temple.  He whispered something in her ear, and she giggled.  Steven was even better than his dad at guarding his feelings most of the time, but now, he was clearly a man in love and glad to have his lover back with him.  For her part, Em was thrilled to be among family and friends again. 

Ron hated himself for what he was about to do.  Motioning his men forward, he stepped into the middle of the happy group.  Emmy smiled at him proudly, expecting official praise, but her grin faded as he hung his head and sighed. 

Looking her in the eye, he said, "I'm so sorry, this is out of my hands.  Director Friedman called me about twenty minutes ago.  I'm only following orders."  Taking a deep breath, he began his official ritual, "Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens, I am placing you under arrest for the kidnapping of Giancarlo Moretti, for tampering with a federal witness, for endangering a federal witness . . . " 

"What the hell?"  Steve was aghast. 

"You bastard!"  Keith snapped. 

"Son of a bitch," Moretti called him. 

"Uncle Ron?"  Steven queried. 

"No!"  Olivia cried out as the litany of charges continued.  When Ron did not stop, she stepped between him and Emmy and tried to push him away.  When she couldn't move him, she began punching and thumping his chest.  "Leave her alone, dammit!  Leave her alone!"  When she kicked him in the shin, Ron grunted, but stepped back a bit. 

One of the other agents moved to pull Liv off Ron, and Emily lashed out faster than the eye could follow, leaving the young man moaning in pain. 

". . . assaulting a federal agent . . ." Ron continued. 

"You touch my mama again," Emmy told the agent, "and I will tear your arm off and beat you to death with it." 

". . . threatening a federal agent . . . " Ron said. 

"Will you shut up?"  Emily snapped, and Ron did.  She turned to her mother, then, and said gently, "It's ok, Mama.  He has no choice.  Remember Judge Braun?  He swore he would get me.  I'm sure he arranged this.  He and FBI Director Friedman are good friends." 

"But Emmy, you got Moretti here alive." 

"I know, but I broke the law to do so.  I have to answer for that.  It will be ok.  Just get me a lawyer, Mama." 

Olivia nodded, and Emmy turned back to Ron, holding out her hands for the cuffs.  As he reluctantly fastened them loosely around her wrists, she asked, "May I stay to hear the verdict?" 

He nodded.  "I owe you that much.  I really am sorry about this." 

"I know, and I know you have orders.  Finish the charges." 

"Stealing cell phones . . . " 

"That's a Federal offense?"  Steven asked. 

Emmy nodded as Ron continued listing the charges.  "FCC regs."

At Steven's look, she elaborated, "Federal Communications Commission." 

"Oh." 

"Look," Emmy told Ron as he was still droning on, "I know my rights, and I promise I won't confess to anything until I see my lawyer.  Can we please sit down?  My back is killing me, and the judge is about to come back." 

Ron had to smile at her sense of humor, and he nodded and showed her to a seat.  The others moved back to their seats with the exception of Al Cioffi.  Keith still sat beside Leigh Ann, but, in preparation for moving Moretti and Emmy out after the verdict, Al had come to sit with Liv and Steven a few rows behind the prosecution. 

When she found herself sitting beside the Chief, she tapped the back of his right hand and asked, "One of Mama's contraptions, sir?"  All the diodes on the glove were red. 

Steve nodded. 

"A biofeedback device, right, sir?" 

"Yes." 

"And it says you need to calm down.  Your friend was only doing his job, sir." 

Steve nodded, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply.

"Mister Foreman," the judge said, "has the Jury reached a verdict?" 

"We have, Your Honor." 

"What say you?" 

"In the matter of the United States _vs._ Vincent Armando Gaudino on charges of money laundering, racketeering, and income tax evasion, we find the defendant guilty on all counts of all charges." 

The end of the trial was anticlimactic, disappointing the swarm of reporters who had gathered.  As Vinnie Gaudino was taken into custody to await sentencing, the members of the prosecution quietly congratulated each other, and the defense counsel came over and shook hands.  Ron went back to the security office, and the wall of cops surrounded Emily and Moretti.  

As planned, Steve walked at the head of the small knot of officers.  Cheryl and Donovan came right behind him, escorting Em, and Al and 'Fredo took Moretti.  Because Emily was now a federal prisoner, two FBI agents followed the group.

For Keith, for the rest of his life, the next few seconds would always be remembered in slow motion.  He was still sitting beside Leigh Ann when his daughter was led off in handcuffs, and he was trying to divide his attention between watching Leigh Ann and gauging Emily's reaction to being a prisoner again.  Suddenly he glanced at Leigh Ann and wondered why she was getting her feminine hygiene case out in the courtroom.  When the small carrying case folded out into a gun shape with a rudimentary trigger mechanism, he knew disaster was imminent.  He looked to Em and saw her eyes widen minutely.

Emily performed her next several actions so fast, even when Ron replayed the security videos on slow motion, he could not tell which came first.  As the scene unfolded for him, he quietly cursed himself for not telling Director Friedman where he and his cronies could stick their vendetta.  When it was over, he kicked the hell out of the trashcan. 

"GUN!"  Emily screamed as she kicked back, nailing Moretti in the groin and dropping him out of danger while she tore Charles Donovan's gun from its holster on her left and belted Commander Banks in the face with her right elbow.  Leaping forward with the same moves that made her a basketball star fifteen years ago, she gave a good old fashioned Punxsutawney Raider's War Cry, as she felt the bullets slam into her, four of them to her one, turned in mid air and hip checked Chief Sloan and knocked him out of the line of fire.  

She landed with a smile, knowing she had neutralized the threat, and then she knew no more.

Keith heard five shots.  The first slammed into Emmy's right shoulder, turning her in the air as she tried to knock Steve out of the line of fire.  The second hit her above the right breast, and her white blouse bloomed crimson even before the next shot was fired.  The third hit her breastbone, and she gave a war whoop from her high school basketball days.  As the fourth bullet tore through her lower left rib cage, she finally squeezed off a shot, and Keith heard Leigh Ann yell.

Steve had been so intent on getting Moretti and Em through the door safely he hadn't spotted Leigh Ann when she drew a bead on him.  He heard Emily yell, 'GUN' and give a blood curdling scream, and the next thing he knew, he was flat on his face sucking wind with a hundred and fifty pounds of dead weight on top of him.  

He smelled the metallic scent of blood and felt its warm, sticky wetness.  He wasn't hit.  _Dead weight.  Oh, God, no.  Please, no, God._  A long, springy, red curl dropped down over his face as he looked at the shoes of the people seated in the bench beside him.  _Why, God?  Why now?_  Beyond the curl, he could see the glove.  The diodes blinked bright red twice then went out. 

He craned his neck to look up just as Ron came bursting in.

Keith suddenly found himself next to the bottom of a dog pile.  Leigh Ann was beneath him, kicking and screaming, and the weight of the world was on top of him, keeping her from getting away.  One man at a time, the weight eased as officers climbed off the pile, and as he got room to maneuver, Keith wrapped his arms around her in a crushing bear hug, pinning her arms to her sides and trying to squash the air out of her.  When they finally got to him, he had an arm tight around her throat and her eyes were bulging.  It took four men to pull him off her, and two more to hold him back while she was cuffed and led away. 

He limped painfully to the carnage in the center aisle and watched the chaos unfold.  Olivia and Steven were working frantically with the paramedics to hold on to Emily.  Donovan was saying, "Too many news vans, the ambulance can't get within a block." 

"There's another way," Moretti said. 

"Not now, Moretti."  Steve was unhurt, but covered in blood.  _Emmy's blood.  Oh, God._

"I can get her out," Moretti insisted. 

Steve turned on the man who was still looking sickly from Em's kick.  "We can't haul her through the ventilation system, dammit!" 

With an animal roar, Keith grabbed Steve by the lapels of his coat and slammed him to the wall.  Banging him repeatedly against the wall, he shouted, "She got him in, he can get her out!  Listen to him!" 

Steve looked to Moretti, and Moretti looked to Donovan, "Two blocks west, an' hang a left.  There's a classic blue Viper parked next to a manhole.  We'll meet you there." 

"She's bleeding out fast, Dad," Steven said, "we have to get her to CG NOW!" 

Steve and Keith looked to Moretti. 

"The basement." 

"Through the judge's chambers," Ron ordered, already on the move, with the paramedics, Steven, Steve, Liv, Keith, Al and 'Fredo Cioffi, Cheryl, and Moretti in tow.  "To the service elevator."  He got on the radio and said, "Have Harold meet us at the service elevator now."  Switching channels, he said, "Donovan, direct a couple black and whites around to where the ambulance is going, but do it discretely.  I don't want to be mobbed by the press again." 

As soon as they saw the service elevator, it was obvious that they wouldn't all fit, and everyone save Liv and the paramedics headed for the nearest stairwell.  The doors opened in the basement to show one paramedic performing CPR while the other was charging the paddles to try to restart Emily's heart.  Liv was speaking softly to her daughter.

"Hold on, baby.  Please, Emmy, hold on," looking up, Liv prayed, "Please, God, don't take her yet." 

"Clear!" 

The paramedic shocked her, and the little green line resumed its somewhat irregular jumping. 

"She's back," he said. 

It was tricky work maneuvering Emmy through the overfull basement and to a door in a dark, dirty little corner.  Once they got there, Moretti tried the knob, and when it didn't turn, he said, "Break it down." 

It gave to Ron's first kick, and there they stood staring down the tunnel.

"I can't believe it's been there all these years and we never knew about it," Agent Wagner said, still in shock as they rode in the squad car following the ambulance.  "Hell of a lot of good our security plans did us, huh?"

Moretti snorted and said disgustedly, "Fat lot of good it woulda done if ya had known about it.  You let that woman walk right in the front door." 

"Don't remind me." 

"Why not?  You screwed up, and that kid is gonna die." 

Agent Wagner looked at him, his eyes full of sorrow and guilt, and said, "Don't underestimate her.  We've done that all along, and she's made fools of us all." 

Moretti shook his head.  "She just let ya be yourselves."

There were more reporters at the hospital, but the ambulance pulled right up to the door scattering them like leaves before the wind.  Emily was moved quickly through the double doors, followed by her parents, Steven, Moretti, and Deputy Chief Sloan.  Steven had ridden in the ambulance and kept in constant contact with Jesse over his cell phone, so they didn't even need to take her in to the trauma room for assessment.  Questions came flying from the press as they spilled past the entrance, but none of Emily's loved ones heard any of them. 

As Emily was whisked straight off to surgery amid the pop and flash of a dozen cameras, Liv rounded on Steve. 

"Why did you let him charge her, Steve?  Why let him arrest her?"  Liv raged blindly.  More lights flashed. 

"Come on, O," Keith said, trying to steer her away. 

She brushed him off and continued to rail at Steve.  "Were you that angry that she embarrassed you?  She could have defended herself better if she hadn't been in cuffs.  Why didn't you stop Ron from arresting her?  Her blood is on your hands, Steve, because she took those bullets for you." 

Finally, Steve had enough. 

"Dammit, Liv!  Do you think I wanted this to happen?"  His voice got louder as he ranted on.  "Do you think I didn't want to stop him?  Do you think I don't know she's my daughter?" he finally shouted. 

Looking back, Steve would always remember how quiet the ER lobby was at that moment.  It was as if the entire world, except for the cameras, had stopped to listen.  The cameras kept flashing.  Olivia drew in a breath, and her lips moved as if she were about to speak.  Then her right hand lashed out and landed a blistering slap to his left cheek.  She tried to speak again, but couldn't.  Then she turned her back on him and walked away.

A camera flashed, then another. 

As the tapping of her heels faded, the normal, chaotic sounds of the ER filtered back into his consciousness. 

"Liv, wait," he called and started after her as she rounded the corner, but Keith held him back. 

"Let her go," he said quietly.  "We can discuss this later." 

When Steve stopped trying to go after Olivia, Keith let go of his arm and limped over to the reception desk. 

"My . . . daughter was just taken to emergency surgery.  Where is the waiting room?"


	24. Waiting in Purgatory

**(Chapter 24. Community General Hospital, FBI Safe house.  March 28.)**

"Ok, Moretti," Ron said as Al and 'Fredo Cioffi came to join him, "let's go."

"I don't think so," Moretti said flatly.

"We need to get you to a safe house, now."

Ignoring Ron, Moretti walked up to the desk and said, "I'm a friend of Emily Stephens.  They took her ta surgery a couple minutes ago.  Where can I go ta wait an' see how she is?"

After getting directions to the OR waiting room, Moretti turned and told Ron, "Ya can protect me here, or ya can go home.  I'm stayin' 'til I know how she's doin'."  With that, he walked away.

Knowing he'd already blown it at least once and that he had no right to expect Moretti to follow his instructions after the mess that had been made of things, Ron just rolled his eyes and went after Moretti, motioning the Cioffis to come along, too. 

Jesse had been having a busy day on the six-to-six shift in the ER.  He had arrived in the grayness of dawn, and now he knew he would be going home in the dark of the night.  He hadn't had time to step out and see the sun all day._  I'm getting too old for these long shifts._

When Emily was brought in, all four trauma suites were already in use, so it was just as well that Steven had filled them in from the ambulance.  They had been able to send her straight to the OR, which was where she needed to be.  Since Alex was just coming on duty and was well rested from a day lounging at home with his wife Marilyn and their two Newfoundland puppies, he took the surgery and Jesse stuck around to cover for him in the ER until he was finished.

Suddenly finding himself with two minutes on his hands and an empty trauma room, he decided to pick up the phone and call Amanda.  The ER had been too busy for him to want to risk a visit to the path lab to look for her, but he figured she was probably still down there, working on one of the patients he hadn't been able to save, and she would be close to the phone.

She picked up on the second ring.

"Amanda Bentley-Wagner," she said in that warm, welcoming tone that Jesse always thought was ill suited to someone who cut up dead people for a living but was perfect for such a charming woman as Amanda.

"Hey, it's Jesse."

"Oh, hi, Jess."  She said cheerfully.  "You sound tired.  What are you still doing here?  It's ten after six."

"You haven't heard, then?"

"Heard?  What?  Who's hurt?"  The panic was rising in her voice already.  "Is it Dion, Ron, or Steve?  Jesse, what happened?"

"Oh, God, no, Amanda.  You know I'd have sent someone to tell you in person if it was one of them.  That was a bad way to start a conversation, I'm sorry.  They're all fine."

He heard a big sigh as she calmed down, "Well, if it's not one of them, then what?"

"Emily was shot as she was leaving the courthouse," Jesse said on a sigh.  "It was bad.  One in the shoulder, two in the chest, one in the abdomen.  She crashed once on the way here.  They took her straight to the OR.  Alex, CJ, and Maribeth are working on her now."

"Oh.  Poor Liv."

"Amanda, that's only the beginning."  He told her what he knew of the shooting at the courthouse, about the words Steve and Liv had exchanged in the ER lobby, and about how she slapped Steve when he finally, in the heat of the moment, brought up his suspicions about Em being his daughter.

"Oh, no.  Then what?"

"She just walked away.  Never answered him.  The lobby was mobbed with press, too.  They got it all in living color and surround sound, and what they didn't get, they will make up so they have a good story," Jesse was disgusted with the media and worried for his friends.  "I think Steve is gonna need some support, and I think someone should get Mark here.  He's alone at the beach house, and I would hate for him to find out about all this when he's on his own."

"You're right, Jess," Amanda agreed.  "I'll call Hannah and have her bring Mark here.  He and Steve can look after each other, and I'll keep an eye on them both."

Jesse heard another ambulance pull up and he sighed.  The night showed no signs of slowing down any time soon.  "Ok, and thanks, 'Manda.  Gotta go."

"Not a problem.  Talk to you later, Jesse."

"Ok, here's the plan," Dr. Alex Martin said when he and his two colleagues were finally scrubbed and standing around their patient.  It had taken only minutes, but to Alex, when a life was in the balance, it always seemed to take forever to get scrubbed, gowned, and gloved for surgery.  "We have a female, very fit, early thirties.  Four gunshot wounds to the shoulder, chest and abdomen.  Collapsed lung, damage to the heart, coronary and pulmonary blood vessels likely.  Also probable damage to the liver and stomach.  Amazingly enough, she's only crashed once so far.  Let's try to keep it that way."

Over the speaker in the scrub room, they had all heard Steven's entire assessment as he rode in on the ambulance with Emmy and again as he followed the gurney down to the ER to brief them one last time from the observation gallery, but it was Alex's habit to review once more before he made the first cut.  On several occasions, a colleague had provided more essential information or made a helpful or even life-saving suggestion in these brief moments before the surgery began, and Alex had never felt he'd lost a patient to this few-seconds-long delay, so, despite the sense of urgency in the room, he carried on as he always had.

As the trauma surgeon on duty, Alex was in charge of Emily's case, and despite her seniority and his higher degree of specialization, both Maribeth and CJ awaited his instructions.  CJ stood across the table from him, and Maribeth stood to his left, near Emily's shoulder.  Both were impatient but respectful, as they knew Alex had more experience in dealing with multiple trauma patients than either of them.

"CJ, you and I will start with the thoracic injuries," he said as they all turned and looked at the images that had been taken by the portable x-ray machine while they were scrubbing.  "They are your forte, so I'll follow your lead."  Holding his hand out for the scalpel, he continued, "Maribeth, you will stop any major bleeds in the shoulder and then go to work on the abdominal injuries."

"But Alex, if I let the shoulder go too long, swelling could shift the bullet and cause a permanent disability."

"I know it _could,_" he replied as he cut his patient open from just under the notch between her collarbones to the tip of her breast bone, "but if you let the stomach go too long, the stomach contents and gastric juices _will cause peritonitis, and as serious as her condition is, that will probably cause a permanent death.  You can go back to the shoulder when we have finished dealing with the life threatening injuries."_

"Oh, duh," Maribeth said, not at all offended.  She knew one of Alex's pet peeves was doctors whose practices were so specialized they forgot to see the whole patient.  He hadn't meant to be sarcastic, and she realized her comment had been a bit short-sighted.

With that, the three surgeons got started on what they knew was going to be a long night.

Keith looked back at the hospital in disgust as he crossed the street and headed into the park.  It was getting dark, and he knew he shouldn't be out alone at night, but he had to get away from that place, from all the history he'd never shared, and from the press, circling like a flock of vultures, and he'd rather be walking in the cold than waiting in purgatory.  His face rumpled into a thoughtful frown as he hobbled along.  A group of vultures wasn't a flock.  There was a special word for it, one he'd learned when Emily was small and going through her, 'I want to be a zookeeper,' phase.  

What lasted several weeks in most children had usually taken only a day or two with Em.  She had often been intensely interested in something for a short time, and he or Olivia would spend hours with her, researching it on the Internet and at the library, sometimes even helping her construct experiments to test her theories.  Then, without warning, she'd lose interest and be off on another topic before they'd had a chance to catch their breath.  

_She sure taught the old man a thing or two.  _Keith grinned wryly.  Having such a precocious child had made him smarter, there was no doubt about that; but it also made him more easily frustrated.  Many times, he felt a thought or scrap of knowledge he once possessed hanging at the edge of his consciousness, and he couldn't rest until he had captured it and committed it to memory again.  He envied Emily her flawless memory.

_Now, what was that word?_

Steve could not stop pacing in the doctor's lounge.  He felt Charles Donovan's eyes on him as he made yet another circuit of the small room, and wondered just why the kid had tagged along to the hospital, then he remembered Donovan had been assigned to protect Emily.  He wanted to send the young man home in the worst kind of way, but he didn't want to be alone, and he preferred Donovan's company to solitude.  He wanted so badly to be with Liv while she waited for news of Emily's condition, but he knew he would not be welcome.  There hadn't been a good time, _Hell, there never would be, with a matter like this, to raise the issue of Em's paternity, but he had picked the worst moment imaginable._

"Hannah, honey, it's Mom."

"Oh, hey Mom, what's up?"

"I need you to do me a favor, sweetie."

"I wish I could, Mom, but I have an experiment going here.  It's been running since noon, and it will be done by midnight.  If I stop it now I can't come back later, and I'll have wasted six and a half hours."

"Is there anyone who could watch it for you for a little while?  This is important."

Hanna's voice was concerned when she replied.  "Are Daddy, Dion, and Uncle Steve ok?"

Amanda smiled.  Her daughter was so much like her, she often jumped to the same conclusions about the important men in her life.  "They're fine, sweetie, but Emily Stephens was hurt today, and . . . "

"Hold on, Mom, I've got a beep."  As long as her family and friends were ok, the world could wait while Hannah answered call waiting.  A few minutes later, Hannah was back, and Amanda could tell from her voice she was shaken.

"Oh, my God, Mom, have you seen the _LA Times evening edition?"_

"No, honey, why?"

"That was Lauren.  She's been trying to call her dad for an hour now, but apparently Uncle Jess has been really busy in the ER."

"Why?"  Now Amanda was concerned.  "What's in the _Times_?"

"I . . . I can't even tell you, Mom."

"Hold on, Mom, I've got another beep."  

Amanda rolled her eyes and sighed.  She was about to hang up on her sometimes too-sociable daughter and go back to work, when Hannah's voice came back on the line.

"Mom?  That was Lauren.  She finally got through to Uncle Jess."

"Hannah, what's in the _Times,_ honey?"

"Lauren read it to me, Mom, and it's horrible.  Bring up the e-edition and read it for yourself.  I . . . I'm gonna get Uncle Mark and bring him to the hospital.  He shouldn't be alone right now.  I can start the experiment over from scratch later."

Amanda heard a click.  "Hannah?  Hannah!"  _What in the world has her so upset?_

Amanda went over to her PC and called up the e-edition of the _LA Times._  The front-page headline immediately caught her eye.  Even more distressing was the photo.

"Oh, my God.  This will destroy them . . . "

"Mr. Moretti!"  Liv exclaimed as she stood in surprise.  "What are you doing here?"

Moretti blushed slightly and stammered when he spoke.  It hadn't occurred to him until just that minute that he might not be welcome here.  

"I . . . uh . . . Er, I wanted to stay until there was word on Emily, if you don't mind, that is."

She smiled slightly and said, "I don't mind at all, but is it safe for you to be here?"

"Yeah . . . "

"No," Ron said.  "Too many people roaming the halls.  He needs to be in a safe house, now."

Liv looked from Ron to Moretti and asked, "Is that true?"

Moretti shrugged and said, "Probably, but ma'am, Em stuck with me an' looked after me.  I feel I owe it to her to stick around at least until she's outta surgery."

"I appreciate your loyalty to Emily, Mr. Moretti, but you need to go somewhere safe.  Now."

"Ma'am," he said earnestly, "I really think I should be here."  He undid the top button of his shirt to show the body armor Em had made him wear.  "This is hers an' she shoulda been wearin' it.  She altered it ta fit me."

It took Liv a moment to compose herself; the sudden realization that Emmy had sacrificed her own safety to such a degree was shocking, but then she shook her head.  "No, Emmy wouldn't want that.  She worked too hard to keep you safe.  If you were hurt on her account, she wouldn't take that well.  Your only obligation to her now is to stay safe."

"Dr. Stephens," Moretti said, "it's my fault she got hurt.  If she hadn't been protectin' me, or if she hadn't given me her gear, she'd be ok, now."

Olivia smiled tightly and nodded.  "I know, and if a bullfrog had wings he wouldn't bump his ass when he hopped along.  Emmy wanted you safe, and she kept you safe."  She looked behind him at Ron, Al, and 'Fredo.  "Now you have to let Agent Wagner and the police take over."

"But ma'am . . ."

Steven Sloan, who had been sitting with Liv when Moretti walked in, came to stand behind her now.  He had learned quickly that Emily's mother was one of the nicest, most genteel women anyone would ever want to meet, but when she started using harsh language and sarcasm, trouble was imminent, and so, when she made the bullfrog comment, he knew he needed to intervene.

"She's right, Mr. Moretti.  Em knew the risks, and she accepted them.  She would kick your butt if she knew you were wandering the hospital."  Looking to Ron, he asked, "Uncle Ron, is there a number where we can call you when we have word of her condition?"

Ron was thoughtful for a bit, then deciding to do what was necessary to get Moretti out of there, he took out a business card and wrote a phone number on it.

"That's my secure cell number," he said, hating to give the number out to a civilian, even one he trusted, but knowing he had to surrender something to get Moretti's cooperation and trust.  "Don't call from a conventional phone or a commercial cell.  The wrong people can track it.  Use your dad's secure cell.  Understand?"

"Yes, sir."  Looking at Moretti, Steven said, "I'll call as soon as we hear anything.  Please, go and be safe, so when Em comes around we can tell her she did her job and you are ok."

Moretti thought a minute, considering, but when Liv whispered, "Please," he nodded, turned, and walked out of the room, with Ron, and Al and 'Fredo Cioffi, scurrying in his wake.****

Mark yawned and stretched as he sat up straighter in his chair.  He'd been reading the latest Tracy Wood mystery, and had put it down a moment to review the clues and see if he could identify the stalker yet.  He knew the desk sergeant was a red herring, but that still left the photographer, the rookie, the psychiatrist, the boyfriend, and the seeming hero of the story.  The stalker had taken photographs of the woman, and as he was trying to decide if that clue was too obvious, he must have drifted off.

Looking at his watch, he found it was just past seven and he had missed the news.  He glanced out the French doors to the beach.  He'd sat down to read around mid-afternoon, and now the moon was frosting the waves with silver.  He got up, groaning as his old joints popped and cracked, and went to check the answering machine.  He didn't always hear the phone these days.  He never missed much in conversation, but the high-pitched wail of the telephone, along with most timers and electronic alarms, was almost beyond his range of hearing now.  It was the reason he'd finally retired from medicine.  One day in the ER, a patient had flatlined, and he'd never heard the alarm.  He'd just continued working and giving orders for several seconds until a nurse brought it to his attention.

He'd saved the patient, finished his shift, found other doctors to take his regular patients, written his resignation, and retired that afternoon.  His son and grandson and Amanda and Jesse's children had provided him with plenty of bumps, scrapes, bruises, colds, coughs, and sniffles to treat since then, but he had never again taken charge of a serious case.  There were days he missed it, to be sure, but he'd never regretted the decision.

Coming back from his memories, Mark found there were no messages on the machine, and figured the judge had decided to hold out for a verdict tonight, which meant everyone would be late getting home and hungry when they arrived.  He needed to get something for dinner that would keep well until they were ready to eat.

Since he was awake now, he turned off the answering machine.  He didn't move as fast as he used to, either, and found it hard to get to the phone before the machine picked up.  Then he decided the photos were too obvious a clue and moved the photographer to the bottom of his list of likely suspects.

He hurried off to the kitchen to throw something together so he could get back to his book and see if he could figure out the stalker's identity and the catch the murderer before the main characters did.

"I wanna gun," Moretti said as the car rolled off into the night.

"Mr. Moretti, it is not our practice to provide federal witnesses with firearms while they are under our protection," Ron said tersely.

"Ask me if I care," Moretti said, knowing his next remark would cut deep.  "I wanna gun.  Your protection is the reason I don't feel safe."

Ron pegged him with a cold stare, then he slipped his backup weapon out of his ankle holster.  "I suppose letting you get shot would be worse for my career than letting you have the means to defend yourself, but you don't use that unless I tell you to, got it?"

"I understand," Moretti agreed, _but that doesn't mean I'll wait for permission._

Amanda sighed as she picked up the phone to call Mark.  She had read the article three times before she could work out how to break the news to him, and now, she waited anxiously for her friend to pick up.  As the phone rang again and again, she knew he had turned off the answering machine and wondered what was taking him so long to take the call.  She could only hope he hadn't gotten the paper yet.

"Hello, this is Mark Sloan," he answered on the tenth ring.  

The cheerful greeting buoyed her spirit.  He hadn't seen the paper or watched the news yet.  She could warn him so it wouldn't take him by surprise.

"Mark, it's Amanda.  What took you so long to answer?"

"Oh, hi, honey!" he said happily, "I was working on dinner and didn't hear the phone at first.  Since I haven't heard from Steve, I figured that Judge Greer had decided to finish the trial today.  I'm going to fix lasagna, I think.  I can eat what I want when I'm hungry, and it will reheat well when the rest of them come home."

"I see."  _Ok, this is a good way to start off.  "Mark, I think you can hold off on fixing the lasagna for quite a while.  In fact, I don't think anyone's going to be home for dinner any time tonight."_

When her friend spoke again, the _joie de vivre was gone.  "Amanda, is Steve ok?"_

"Yes, Mark.  He's ok.  The only one hurt was Emily.  She's in bad shape, but there's something else I have to tell you . . . "

"No wonder she lost so much blood," CJ exclaimed.  "Look at this!"  He placed two bullet fragments on the green sterile sheet that was draping Emily's body while they operated.

Alex looked at the small white shards stained pink with Emmy's blood and grunted.  "I've been seeing those a lot in the ER lately," he said as he went back to work.  "It's a new material, a ceramic polycarbonate.  Very strong when unmarked, but snaps easily when scored or scratched.  Steve showed me one they had confiscated a while ago.  The bottom half of the bullet is smooth so it can withstand the force of the gunpowder explosion.  Then the top half is scored, the lines dividing it into six or eight pieces.  When it hits a bone, it fragments in a starburst pattern.  Makes a much larger wound, and the sharp edges tear everything up."

As Alex had been talking, he and CJ had removed several more pieces of a bullet from Emily's chest, and it was easy to see the devious, sadistic design of the projectile.

Maribeth leaned over for a look and muttered, "Sick bastards."  

Then they all lapsed back into intense silence.

_A colony!  A flock of vultures is a colony!_  Keith had been puzzling for what seemed like hours as he wandered nervously through the park across the street from the hospital, limping heavily.  He had known the word wasn't flock, but he'd been running through odd words searching for the right one, not realizing the term he sought was so mundane.  He'd remembered a congregation of alligators, a shrewdness of apes, a sleuth of bears, a cartload of chimps, and an intrusion of cockroaches--which always made him laugh because it was so apt--a murder of crows, and a bloat of hippos, which made him laugh again.  Then he realized he and Em had learned the collective terms for animals in alphabetical order and he would never get to vulture that way.  So, he'd left it as he hobbled along and worried and sure enough, 'colony' came to him out of nowhere.

After berating himself for the foolish mistake of looking for an esoteric word when something common would do, he went back to walking.  He'd left his pager number with the OR administrator's desk, so he knew if there was any word about Em he would be contacted.  He couldn't believe he'd let his baby down.  He knew under the circumstances he couldn't bear to face her mother, and he didn't have anyone else there to sit with him, so he decided to go for a walk.  He had a hunch it was going to be a very long walk, and he was grateful for the lights along the path and the tolerance to the chill of the night a lifetime of living in Pennsylvania's Allegheny Mountains had given him.

_A passel of hogs, a mute or a cry of hounds, a charm of hummingbirds, a cackle of hyenas, a bury of hyraxes-what's a hyrax?-and a fluther of jellyfish-Fluther?  Yes, a fluther of jellyfish . . ._

Steve sat for a bit on the couch at the end opposite Donovan.  He wasn't sure why the young officer had followed him.

"Donovan?"

"Sir?"

"What are you doing here?"

The young man obviously thought frantically for a moment, then he explained, "Well, I was assigned to protect the lieutenant until she was debriefed, but I don't want to intrude on her family.  Commander Banks never gave me any new orders, so I figured I might as well stick close until you dismissed me.  That way, if you need anything done, you have someone to handle it for you."

Steve looked to the young officer then, unmasked gratitude in his eyes.  "You're a good man, Donovan," he said gruffly.

"Amanda," Mark said earnestly after she had finished explaining the whole disaster and the horrible newspaper article, "I need someone to come and take me to Steve.  You know what he's like.  He's going to take this to heart, and it will just ruin him."

"I know, Mark, and I knew that's what you would want.  Hannah's on her way now."

"Ok, thanks Amanda."  There was a long pause, then with dread, Mark said, "I . . . uh, I'm going to read the paper for myself, so I know what we're dealing with, but thanks for warning me."

"All right, Mark.  You know I'd go to him, but there's a detective waiting for the report on this autopsy, and since the prime suspect is a flight risk, well, I just have to get it done."

"I know, sweetie.  You just do your job.  You know that's what Steve would want.  I'll take care of him."

"You always have, Mark.  I'll see you later."

"Bye, Amanda."

Mark hung up the phone and went out on the stoop to get the _Times.  He read the headline and shuddered.  Amanda had said it only got worse from there._

"You know," Olivia said as Steven brought her another cup of bad coffee from the machine in the lounge, "three years ago, when Emmy was sick with the BioGen virus, her condition fluctuated so wildly from day to day, we didn't know for a long time if she was improving or not."

"It must have been very hard for you," Steven sympathized as he sat on the sofa beside her and angled himself to face her.

"It was.  I think it was harder than it would have been if she had stayed sick the whole time and only improved gradually."  Olivia shook her head, trying to clear those bad memories, "But it had its good points, too.  On her better days, she and I talked for hours.  We settled most of the issues between us, but I always felt there was something left unsaid."

It was several moments before Steven realized Liv had just trailed off.  Finally, he asked, "Are you wondering if she told me something?  Something I am supposed to tell you . . . if anything ever happens to her."

Liv nodded and shrugged at the same time.

Steven searched desperately for something she could cling to.  When he and Emily had talked about their parents, he could always hear the affection in her voice and see the light in her eyes when she mentioned her dad, but often, her memories of her mother were bittersweet at best and furious at worst.  He frantically cast about in the dark corners of his memory for something, anything, Olivia could latch on to, and after some thought he recalled a conversation he and Emily had shared just before Halloween.

"I don't know if this is the kind of thing you're looking for, Olivia, but she remembers picking berries with you and all the fascinating things you'd tell her, and all the cool things that would happen.  She really enjoyed those times, and when she talks about them, I can tell they are precious, treasured memories for her."

"Really?"  If anything, Olivia seemed even more anxious now to know what message Emily may have left her.

"Oh, absolutely," Steven affirmed.  "When she talks about those days, her voice drops in register and it gets all warm and soft.  She smiles, and her eyes sparkle.  She remembers the dove you found tangled in the briars, and the turtle.  She really enjoyed feeding the turtle."  Steven smiled, "Boy, was she mad though, that you wouldn't let her carve her initials into its shell."

Olivia laughed.  "Oh, she sure was, but we compromised.  I let her take it home and paint them on, and they were still there the next year when we saw him.  Did she tell you about the bear?"

"Oh, yes," Steven laughed aloud.  "I still can't believe you scared it off by flapping your arms and yelling at it!"

Olivia shrugged.  "I didn't know what else to do.  Black bears aren't much for fighting.  They're just big and curious, but there was no way I was turning my back on one and retreating down the trail the way I had come.  So, I made myself look as big as I could and made as much noise as possible, and sure enough, he ran."

Steven laughed even harder now as he replied, "I think I would run, too, if you charged me, flapping like an angry chicken and hollering like Tarzan."

Liv shot him a cool look.  "Tease me if you must.  It worked."

After another long laugh, Steven caught his breath and said, "She still treasures those days, picking berries, and making jam and juice and tarts, when it was just you and her and the work to be done with nothing to argue over or be upset about.  Liv," he put his hand over hers and squeezed gently, "I know you and Em haven't had the easiest time of it, but when things were at their worst between you, she held on to those memories.  You built a solid foundation with her, in the meadow picking berries and in the kitchen, storing them up.  Those wonderful things you two shared when she was little brought her back to you after she did her time in Washington and after the BioGen virus, and they will bring her back to you now, too.  I know they will."

Olivia smiled, and when the smile reached her eyes, it made the tears that had been building there spill over.  Sniffing and dabbing at the wetness on her cheeks, she said, "Sometimes, I forget what it was like for us to be . . . good to each other.  I just hope I get another chance."

Steven slipped one long arm around Olivia's shoulders and pulled her close in a hug.  "You will, Liv.  Count on it."

She just nodded and settled into the crook of his arm. 

"Uncle Mark," Hannah asked as she pulled up outside the hospital's delivery entrance to avoid the press, "are you gonna be ok?"

Mark patted Amanda's daughter on the arm.  "I'll be fine, sweetie.  It's your Uncle Steve and Aunty M. I'm worried about."

Hannah just smiled.  It had been years since she had called her aunt by the affectionate allusion to the _Wizard of Oz_, but Uncle Mark refused to let it die, much to Maribeth's annoyance and Uncle Steve's amusement.

"Ok, Unk."  She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.  "If you need me, call me.  You know the number at the lab, right?"

Just to prove his memory was still working, he recited it back to her along with her cell phone and pager numbers.  "I will call if I need to, Hannah, but your mom and Uncle Jesse and a lot of other friends and family are here.  There are a lot of people around to look after your Uncle Steve and me."

"I know."  Hannah said, "I just wanted to make sure you knew I'm here for you, too, even though I have to get back to the lab now."

"I know that, honey," he said, getting out of the car.  "Now, get back to your experiment.  In a couple of days when the excitement settles down, we can talk about the results."

Hannah smiled broadly, then.  She loved discussing her work with Uncle Mark, and he was always eager to help her formulate hypotheses.  Even at his age, he had a keen mind, and she was certain she would not have advanced as far as she had as quickly as she did in the Ph.D. program if not for his subtle prodding and guidance.

"Ok, Unk."  Checking her watch, she said, "It's eight fifteen now.  It will be about nine by the time I get back to the lab and restart my experiment.  It needs to run twelve hours for this first phase and then I need to clean up the lab.  I'll talk to my dissertation advisor and make sure I'm free until this crisis is over, and then, about ten thirty tomorrow, I'll give you a call or show up at the beach house to see what I can do to help, ok?"

"All right, sweetie," Mark agreed.  "I'll see you tomorrow, but why don't you call the hospital first?  I have a feeling it's going to be a long night."

"Will do, Unk, and you'll call me at the lab as soon as there's word about Emily . . . or . . .um, anything else, right?"

"You bet, sweetie.  Now, get back to your lab, ok?"

"Yes, Uncle Mark," Hannah said sweetly, and blew him a kiss.

Mark caught Hanna's kiss and blew one back at her in a familiar ritual they had shared since she was a tiny baby.  The he shut the door and headed for the hospital.  When she was sure he was safely inside, Hannah headed off for the lab again.

"You know," Maribeth said as she felt around for a piece of shrapnel in her patient's abdomen, the bullet had struck a rib on the way in and sheared off in six different directions.  "I was a field surgeon during the Persian Gulf War back in '91.  We heard that back home they were calling it the Nintendo war because all the high altitude and high tech images people were seeing made it seem like a large-scale video game."  

She paused as she found a shard of bullet and carefully extracted it.  The edges were razor sharp, and she knew if she wasn't careful, removing it could cause more damage.  As the devastating little hunk of polymer clinked into the basin, she continued.

"I laughed when I heard that," she said.  "I thought it was clever."

"But?"  Alex encouraged, knowing there was a 'but'.  Some surgeons required absolute silence when they worked, others listened to music.  He preferred quiet conversation.  It relaxed him, but didn't distract him.

"The next day," Maribeth said sadly, "I worked on a young marine who had . . . found . . . an Iraqi landmine.  I had to amputate both legs above the knee, and I knew the war was no damned game."

"I see," Alex said.

After a few moments of quiet concentration, CJ asked, "Maribeth, why did you tell us that?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "I guess I just wonder, when we have weapons that can blow a man's legs off or make a hole the size of your fist through his chest or irradiate an entire city, why do some people continue to look for more devious and horrible ways to kill one another?"

"In this case," CJ said, "I think Leigh Ann knew she'd have to sneak into the courtroom to get the job done, so she needed something the standard scans wouldn't spot."

"Then why wait until after the verdict?"  Maribeth asked.  "The damage had already been done.  She should have killed Moretti the moment he took the stand."

"Didn't you hear what Steven said?"  CJ's tone was surprised.  "Leigh Ann wasn't after Moretti, she was shooting at Uncle Steve.  Emmy knocked him out of the line of fire."

For just a few seconds, Maribeth paused in her work.  Her eyes grew wide, and her hands froze in position, deep inside her patient's body.  She let her gaze lift to meet CJ's.  Oblivious to the impact of his words, the young surgeon glanced up and then away, and went back to his own task.  "I just want to know why she wasn't at least wearing a flack jacket."

Looking daggers at his young colleague, Alex prompted softly, "Maribeth?"

She blinked twice, and Alex saw her mask draw in and puff out as she took a deep breath.  He heard her swallow hard, and he knew she was imagining Steve on the table, the three of them rooting around inside him, searching for scrips and scraps of the four shattered bullets.

"Maribeth."

She nodded.  "I-I'm ok.  Let's take good care of her, ok, guys?"

Alex smiled beneath his mask.  "Finest kind," he said.

Keith sat on the park bench, tired of walking and thoroughly disgusted with himself.  He'd gladly trade the advances that had given him feeling in his artificial legs, even the ticklishness that so delighted his wife, for the lifeless but reliable old fiberglass models he'd started with if only it meant he could have acted the moment he saw the danger and saved his daughter.

Steve continued to pace and fidget in the lounge.  He had a feeling he was _persona non grata almost everywhere else he was likely to go at a time like this, and he was actually afraid to go to the OR waiting room and face Liv, Keith, and Steven.  He knew Jesse was busy in the ER, and he just wasn't sure he could go to Amanda yet.  He didn't know how she would react to what he'd said or when he'd said it.  He couldn't believe he'd been so stupid.  Suddenly, it entered his mind that there was one possible worse time to have questioned Liv about Emmy's paternity, and the fear of that loss overwhelmed him.  He felt his gorge rise, and swallowed hard as he sprinted for the bathroom.  Just in time dropped to his knees before the bowl, grateful that he was in a hospital and the bathrooms were sanitized regularly._

Donovan looked up as the Chief sprinted out of the lounge.  He'd heard the tape, and he'd heard what Chief Sloan had said to Dr. Stephens.  He knew it was none of his business, but he respected and admired the man despite his indiscretion.  He didn't know what he could do to help, but he wouldn't leave the Chief alone, not yet anyway.  He'd wait right here until his boss told him to go.

"This is no good, Wagner," Moretti said in disgust as he shut the refrigerator door.  The tone was chosen as much to needle Agent Wagner as it was to convince himself that he really didn't want to eat himself sick on every greasy, starchy, salty scrap of food in the house.

"What's wrong now, Moretti?"  Agent Wagner snapped.

Moretti grinned inside.  The guy was so easy to bait.  "Frozen pizzas, microwave popcorn, canned pasta, whole milk, cold cuts, an' soda.  Nothin' in here's fit ta eat," he said.

"Look, Moretti . . . "

"No, you look."  Moretti was agitated.  He was worried about Em, and as his situation wore on his nerves, he wanted more and more to gorge himself on the junk in the refrigerator to help him keep his worries at bay.  "I am in the best shape of my life, thanks ta Em, and I intend ta keep it that way.  She got me ta realize that I eat ta relieve stress, an' since I am stressed now, I might as well have something healthy ta eat.  I'm gonna make a list, and then someone is gonna get some groceries . . ."

"Moretti," Agent Wagner said, "no one is leaving this house until . . ."

"Or I can get them, if you want," Moretti finished, knowing what the response would be.

"If you try to leave, I will shoot you myself," Wagner shouted storming out of the kitchen.  "Al, get in here."  For a few moments, Ron stood there huffing like an angry bull, then he swallowed hard, straightened up, and said, "When . . . Mr. . . . Moretti has completed his . . . grocery list, I want you to go out and buy whatever the hell he wants.  Save the receipt and we'll charge it up to the FBI, ok?  When you get back, send 'Fredo home.  We'll take it in twelve-hour shifts.  I want him on with one of my men from noon to midnight.  You and I will cover until noon tomorrow.  By tomorrow midnight, Steve and I should be able to arrange a couple more teams to for guard duty."

"Ok.  Anything else?"

"No."

"Yes," Moretti said, following Wagner out of the kitchen, and Agent Wagner glared at him, "Clean out the fridge an' the cupboards an' take it all ta the nearest soup kitchen."

Al looked to Wagner who continued to glare at his witness.

"Don't worry," Moretti said, "I'll cook for us all."

After a tense silence, Wagner nodded and stalked out.

Charles Donovan was still staring out the door where the Chief had gone when a familiar face appeared in his view.  He blinked and grinned.

"Hey, Dr. Sloan!  How are you?"  He stood up and crossed the room to shake the older man's hand.

"Holding on, Charles," the old man said, "like everyone else involved in this mess.  Any word on Emily?"

"No, sir, nothing yet, but Agent Wagner and 'Fredo and Captain Cioffi got Moretti safely away."

"Good, good.  At least something is going right, I suppose.  Um, Charles, do you think you could help me out a bit?"

"I could try, sir.  What is it you need?"  

"I need some help getting my bearings, I'm afraid.  I have been wandering around for the past twenty minutes looking for my son.  I slipped in through a delivery entrance, but the layout of the place has changed so much over the years, I had a hard time finding my way here.  Have you seen him?"

"No . . . err . . . yes."  At Mark's bemused expression, the young cop tried to explain.  "He was here, with me, but he ran out.  I don't know why, and I don't know where he went, but I don't think it had anything to do with the lieutenant, and he didn't tell me to come along.  I've sort of been lost in thought, so I don't even know how long ago that was.  I can give him a message, if you'd like."

"No thanks, Charles, I know a couple of other places he might be.  I'll check there first.  Could you refresh my memory?  What floor is the OR waiting room on?"  

After getting directions from Donovan, Mark headed off and left the young man to his thoughts once again.

Olivia yawned and stretched, and Steven knew she would soon be awake.  She had drifted off into a much-needed sleep shortly after he had told her all about Em's fondest childhood memories, and, unwilling to disturb her rest, he had sat still and held her, curled against him for about forty-five minutes.

She smiled slightly, nestled closer, and opened her eyes.  Then, when she looked up at him, an expression of absolute horror crossed her face and she jumped up and moved quickly away from him.

"I-I'm sorry," she said, clearly embarrassed.  "I . . . guess I was just really tired."

"You were, Olivia, and it's ok," Steven soothed her.  He moved toward her where she stood beside the window and put a hand on her shoulder.  "Now, what startled you so much?"

She turned away from his comforting touch and crossed the room to sit in a large armchair.  Looking up at him, she said, "You are almost the image of your father when I met him.  Maybe the hair's a bit darker, and your eyes aren't so . . . troubled, but you look just like him."

"You didn't know him when he was blonde, did you?"

Olivia smiled slightly and said, "No, why?"

Steven laughed.  "You should see some of the old family photos, then.  The hair that glowed."  Steven opened his eyes wide on 'glowed' and gave it the aura of an old low-budget horror movie.

Olivia started to giggle as she pictured the deeply tanned Steve Sloan with a thick mop of shiny yellow hair.  "Oh, my."

As he moved to sit on the coffee table facing Liv, Steven said, "But that's not what frightened you, is it?"

She shook her head.  "No, it's not."  There was a long moment of silence between them, then Liv said, "How much do you know about your dad's . . . relationship with me?"

Steven drew a deep breath.  It was one thing to discuss an old flame with his dad, but to talk about it with the woman in question, especially when he thought she might one day become his own mother-in-law . . . Steven did not like where this conversation was heading.

"I know you two were close."

Liv raised an eyebrow.

"Ok, intimate.  Why?"

Liv pursed her lips, weighing her words.  "I just need to straighten out with you what he asked me about when Em was carted off to the OR."

Steven shook his head.  "Liv, I went all the way to Pre-Op with Em.  I didn't hear him."

Olivia sighed with relief.  "Ok, then, never mind."

Steven was puzzled now, but she was so clearly relieved to avoid a conversation that he hadn't wanted to hold anyway, he let it go without another word.  He moved over to the window to look out on the city, and Liv picked up an out-of-date magazine and started to read.

As Mark approached the OR waiting room, he heard, "How much do you know about your dad's . . . relationship with me?"

"I know you two were close . . . Ok, intimate.  Why?"

Knowing Steve could not be there and deciding now was not the time to interrupt, Mark turned and headed back down the hall.

"She won't talk to anyone but you, Steve," Cheryl explained over the phone.

Steve sighed and thought a moment.  "Ok.  Take her back to lock-up."

"You aren't coming to question her?"

"She worked for me for three years, Commander," Steve said, stressing her rank as a way of indicating she was pushing the boundaries of their relationship to question him at such a moment, "and she betrayed me.  I can hold her forty-eight hours without charging her.  She can wait until I am ready to see her."

"Yes, sir," Cheryl replied formally.

"Well," Olivia said, "you've seen the worst of the job, now.  Do you still want to marry my daughter?"

Steven looked at Olivia in surprise and grinned.  "What makes you think I ever intended to marry her?"

"You're your father's son, and an honorable man.  You wouldn't have moved in with her if you didn't plan to make an honest woman of her.  So, have your plans changed?"

"I love your daughter very much," Steven said, "and I think she loves me, too."  He suddenly found himself blinking back tears.  "I want to marry her, but right now, I'm not sure I'm strong enough to be with a cop."

"You've been through some bad times with your dad," Liv said, "and you managed that ok."

"Yeah," Steven agreed, laughing slightly, his voice still choked with emotion.  "But Dad's just . . . well, he's Dad.  When I was little, I thought he was indestructible, and I think maybe he did, too.  In fact, he probably still does.  When I was old enough to understand, I was proud of him and he shielded me from the worst of it.  Then for a few years, I acted like I wouldn't have cared if he had gone straight to hell.  And, now, well, he's still just Dad, stubborn and determined to do what he loves, what he's best at.  I know forcing him to quit would kill him as surely as a bullet to the brain.  It would just take longer.  If he ever leaves the force, it will be by his choice or in a body bag."

"And Em?"

"I love her, Olivia, and I still want to marry her, but I don't know if I could bear to lose her to the job."

Liv nodded.  "You couldn't bear to lose her to the job, huh?"

"No, I couldn't."

"If you decide not to marry her because of the job, isn't that exactly what you are doing?"

"I suppose so," he agreed after some thought, "but at least I won't have to bury her."  He fell silent again, then, "I do want to marry her, but I am afraid of what she does for a living.  Whatever I choose to do, Liv, I will wait until she is strong enough to handle it.  You have my word on that."

"I know you will, Steven, and I am glad you need to think it over.  I would be more concerned if you had no reservations.  A lack of doubt about the future often indicates unrealistic expectations.  May I make a suggestion?"

"Sure."

"Search your heart, say your prayers, and ask the Lord to guide you.  Trusting something greater than yourself usually gives you the strength to handle problems that would be insurmountable for you on your own."

"You know, Em told me you were big on faith."

Liv smiled, "I don't leave home without it."

Steven smiled back.  "Say a prayer for me sometimes, would you?"

"I will," she said heading for the door, "right now.  I'm going to the chapel.  You're welcome to join me."

"Uh, no, thanks," Steven said.  "I want to stay here in case there's word."

"Ok," Liv agreed, "Have them page me if there is any news."

"Is there any word on the lieutenant, sir?"

"Enough with the 'sir,' Cheryl," Steve grumbled into the phone.  He looked to his watch and cursed softly to realize it wasn't there because it had interfered with the glove.  Then, since it had quit working when Emily had fallen atop him like a sack of stones, he had taken the glove off and stuffed it in his pocket.

"Steve?"

"What time is it?" he demanded.

"About nine, why?"

"Em's been in surgery three hours now," he told her.  "It'll be a while, still.  You and Dion finish your reports and go home.  Even when she comes out of surgery, it will be a couple days before they can say for sure if she'll recover."

"Ok, Chief.  You take care of yourself, you hear?"

"I will."

9:05

"Man, this shoulder is a mess," Maribeth said.  They'd been working for a while, now, and she had finally finished up in Emily's abdomen.  She had just asked Alex to check her work, and CJ was still repairing the chest injuries.

"Everything is a mess, Maribeth, but we've held onto her this long, she might make it."

"She might at that," Alex said grimly, "but how will she be?"

"Hmmm," CJ grunted, "it might be rough, but she'll have a lot of support.  I remember Liv from when Uncle Steve was hurt.  She was good . . . for . . . him. . . "  He looked sheepishly at Maribeth.  "Sorry."

"It's ok, CJ, you're right.  She was good for him with his ulcers, too.  She knows how to handle him, and I'm grateful she was here when he needed her."

"That's not what the floor nurse says," CJ said teasingly.

"Well, the floor nurse doesn't know everything," Maribeth told him as another bullet fragment clinked into the basin.

Chuckling, he said, "That's not what the floor nurse says, either."

"Guys," Alex said nodding toward the observation gallery, "we have company."

"Awww, crud," CJ said after he had glanced up and back to his work.

"Problem?"  Maribeth asked.

"That's my date.  I stood her up in Chicago to come check on Uncle Steve when he was admitted for his ulcers.  I was supposed to pick her up at the airport . . . " He looked at the clock.  It was just past nine.  ". . . two and a half hours ago, and I forgot to call."

"CJ," Alicia Birch-Geiger said in a pouty voice over the speakers from the observation gallery, "I'm beginning to think you don't like me.  You've stood me up twice now."

"Yep," Alex said, looking to Maribeth, "that's a problem."

Hearing the laugh in Alicia's voice, CJ relaxed, and asked the nurse to hit the intercom.  He called out, "Alicia, how'd you get in here?"

"Nice to see you, too," she replied.  "I just told them who I was and that I was here to see you, and they sent me through.  Being a world famous vascular surgeon does open doors in any hospital."

"I suppose.  Sorry I wasn't there to pick you up.  I, uh, got a little busy here."

"Just another day at the office, huh?"

"I suppose," he agreed.  Alicia seemed relaxed and happy to see him, even though she'd had to take a cab from the airport and come looking for him.  "Actually, this patient's a cop.  She's here because she got hurt saving my Uncle Steve's life."

"Oh, I see," Alicia's voice was more subdued this time.  "Is it bad?"

"Yes, but we've taken care of the worst of it.  She should be out of the OR by ten."

"And the prognosis?"

"Too soon to tell."

"Do you need any help?"

CJ looked to Alex because he was in charge.  "She _is_ the best in the country," he said softly.

"Is it anything you can't handle?"

CJ thought a moment, and then said for Alicia to hear, "No thanks, sweetheart, we've got it."

"Ok.  Mmmm, do you want me to stay until you tell the family?"

"No, thank you, that's all right."

"Well, then, I guess I'll just get settled at the hotel.  If you aren't too late, come by for a nightcap.  I'm staying at the Argyle in West Hollywood.  Once she's stable, be sure to get some rest yourself, you hear?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am," CJ responded cheerfully.

CJ smiled as he heard the genuine concern in her voice.  He knew Alicia was a fantastic surgeon, but what he liked even more about her was her caring nature.  There had been a wedding reception in the ballroom of the hotel where they both had attended a conference recently, and the cake had toppled over when two rambunctious children had run into the table.  Alicia sympathized with the couple, feeling bad about their disaster, and was mortified when CJ had laughed about the mess.  He had insisted the reaction of the children and the wide-eyed shock of the cake server had been funny, and told her about Steve and Liv's wedding that never was, claiming that was a real disaster and something to get upset about.  Then Alicia had suddenly shouted, "I knew I recognized you from somewhere!" and had told him she was the little girl he and his brother had entertained the whole weekend.

As he recalled that Liv and Alicia's adoptive father were old friends, his smile faded.  She probably knew Emily.

"CJ?"  Alex said, calling him back from his recollection.  "Is there a problem?"

"Huh?  No, no, not here anyway.  Nurse, hit the intercom again."  The nurse pressed the button, and CJ called, "Alicia!"

She turned away from the door and came back to the observation window.  "What's up?"

"Alicia, does your dad keep in touch with Dr. Olivia Regis . . . well, now her name's Stephens?"

"Oh, yeah, I see Aunt Liv and Uncle Keith a couple times a year, why?"

When CJ didn't respond immediately, Alicia got the idea.  "Oh, God, is that Emily?"

"I have to go, Cheryl," Steve said.  "I'll talk to you later."

"Ok, Steve.  Take ca . . . "

He didn't even wait for her to finish her goodbye.

"Liv!  Wait up."  He caught up with her at the entrance to the hospital chapel.

Olivia stopped and turned to face him.

"Look, what I said earlier . . . I can understand why you never told me, but now that my son is dating her . . . "

"I can't discuss this now, Steve, I'll fall apart.  I promise we'll talk later, but not until Emmy is doing better."  She turned and started to walk away but Steve put a hand on her shoulder.

"Look, Liv . . . "

She spun away from him and pushed him, hard, taking him by surprise and causing him to stagger back.  "I said not now!"

Steve looked at her and saw she was trembling.  There was something in her eyes, too, an emotion that frightened him.  He wasn't sure if she was on the edge of rage or insanity or both, but he knew any more stress and she would go over the edge and into the darkness beyond.

"Ok, Liv, I . . . I'll leave you alone.  We'll talk later.  When Emily is stronger."

She nodded, turned away, and headed into the chapel.

Keith paced the corridors of the hospital looking for a decent vending machine for a cup of hot coffee.  He'd stayed out in the park as long as he could, but even life in the mountains hadn't completely inured him to the kind of cold that settled in the bones on a foggy night.  Eventually, he had known that between the cold and the stress that was playing havoc with the neural receptors from his prosthetics, if he didn't get inside and warmed up, he would be stuck on the park bench until someone came looking for him.

The smell of food caught his attention, and, surprised the cafeteria stayed open so late, he walked faster.  He joined the line, and as he went through, he chose some hot soup, a sandwich, and coffee.  He wasn't terribly hungry, but he knew he'd caught a chill, and the soup and coffee would hopefully knock it out of him.

Glancing around, he spotted an empty table with a newspaper on it.  Perfect.  If he were reading, people would probably leave him alone, and he could find out if the rest of the world was still out there.  He'd been caught up in his own personal crisis for so long, he'd forgotten anything else existed.

As he sat down and unwrapped his sandwich, he glanced at the headline.  Suddenly the room started to turn.  _This isn't happening.  He felt his world unraveling.  __It's not possible.  He put the sandwich carefully on the tray and began to read.  _

As his eyes scanned the page, the words made less and less sense, and his mind screamed a denial.  Finally, he put it aside and buried his face in his hands.

After his confrontation with Olivia, Steve had to duck back into the men's room.  He'd thrown up everything in his stomach earlier, but the dry heaves were just as bad.  He needed something to settle his stomach, but he didn't want to show his face where too many people would recognize it, and he sure as hell didn't want Jesse dragging him into a trauma suite and shoving a tube up his nose again.

He splashed his face with cold water and stepped out to the water fountain to rinse his mouth.  Amanda would have something to make him feel better.  She had all kinds of meds in her desk, and everybody else there would be dead at this time of night.

"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy name, Thy kingdom come, Thy . . . will . . . be done . . ."  Suddenly everything fell apart and the ritual of prayer that usually brought Olivia solace in time of trouble only deepened her anguish.

"Oh, God," she sobbed, "Please don't take her away from me.  Not yet.  Not yet . . ."

Mark watched in fascination.  He had always known Liv was a woman of deep faith, but he had never pictured her pouring her heart out like this.

"She has been through so much, Lord, and I know she deserves to be home with You, but I can't bear to lose her now, not before things are . . . right . . . between us."  

She took a deep, shuddering breath and began again, her plea punctuated with little hiccoughing sobs.  "Oh, Father, please . . . just give us a little more time . . . together.  I need to know . . . that she knows . . . how much I love her."

Suddenly, Mark was embarrassed.  He was eavesdropping on a private, personal conversation with God, and what was said here was none of his business.  His son wasn't here, so he had no excuse to linger.  He sent up a brief word of his own, asking protection and guidance for everyone caught up in this horrible crisis, and then he went back on his quest for his son.

"Keith?"

Keith started at the voice invading his thoughts, and looked up into the concerned eyes of Dr. Jesse Travis.

"Is it Em?" he asked, starting to stand.  "My God, why didn't they page me?  How is she?"

Jesse put a hand on his shoulder and gently pushed him back down.

"No, Keith, there's no word yet.  They're still working on her."

At the man's stricken look, Jesse wished he had something more to say.  Abandoning thoughts of getting in line for his own very late dinner, he sat down to face the worried father.

"She's in very good hands, Keith."

"I . . . I know, Jesse, I'm just so worried.  She's always worried her mother and me, y'know?"  

Jesse smiled and nodded.  "My daughter, Lauren, isn't as . . . active . . . as Emily, but I know what it's like."  He glanced to the newspaper.  _Poor guy.  Why'd he have to see that now?_

Keith followed Jesse's gaze and folded up the paper disgustedly.

"Birdcage liner.  That's what Liv would call it.  Lies and half-truths slapped together minus the important facts to make a grand story to sell papers."

"Steve . . . knew . . . a while ago, about Emily."

Suddenly outraged, Keith stared the smaller man down.  "She is **_not_ his daughter." **

"Keith," Jesse tried hard to sound sympathetic, "I know you raised her, and you did a great job, but if she gets through this, she has a right to know.  She needs to know."

Overcome with his misery, Keith put his head in his hands and wept.  "Maybe she would have been better off with him.  Maybe he could have kept her out of trouble.  I've always been her daddy, but he sure as hell would have been more help to her tonight."

At a loss, Jesse just put a hand on the other man's shoulder and said, "Keith, there was nothing you could do."

Keith folded his arms on the table, buried his face in them, and began to sob in earnest.  "You don't understand.  You have a daughter, too, how could you not understand?"

". . . how could you not understand?"

Mark sighed.  He'd been searching for Steve for over an hour, and was beginning to feel tired and frustrated.  The layout of the hospital had gradually changed over the years since he had retired, and while he still visited colleagues from time to time, he no longer had the run of the place as he once did.  It had taken him a while to find his way through the now unfamiliar halls of Community General, and now that he'd been wandering for some time, he wasn't sure where to go next.  It seemed everywhere he went, not only was his son elsewhere, but the familiar faces he saw were involved in other matters and he was unwilling to intrude.

After seeing Olivia deep in prayer and now watching from across the cafeteria as Keith dissolved in tears, he decided he needed to go see just how badly his grandson's girlfriend had been hurt.  Walking up to a fresh-faced young doctor whom he did not know, he introduced himself, and, gratified that his name, if not his face, was still recognized and respected, he got directions to the new OR observation gallery.

Amanda sat on the edge of the desk, gently rubbing her friend's back.  Steve had come in looking for something to calm his upset stomach, and after gratefully accepting the whitish liquid she had poured into a dose cup for him, he had sat down at her desk and begun to lament his predicament.

"Ok, so you could have picked a better time to raise the issue," she told him, "but the fact remains that you'd have had to ask her sooner or later.  The paternity test was inconclusive, and the only way you can be sure now is to have Keith take one, too."

"I know, Amanda," Steve said, fighting to keep his voice even, "but she was so mad, and after all that has happened, she has every right to hate me."

"Steve Sloan, you listen to me!"  Amanda's tone was sharper than she had meant it to be, but it got his attention, so she kept going.  "Olivia loved you the moment she saw you.  I should know, I was there, and even before your dad introduced the two of you, she had gone all dewey-eyed.  She's not going to hate you."

"But Amanda, that was thirty years ago, and she has Keith now."

"Steve, this is Liv we're talking about," Amanda tried to sound encouraging.  "She didn't hate that guy who tried to kill the two of you years ago.  What makes you think she could hate you now?  Her feelings for you may have changed, but not that much.  Besides, my friend, even if you have pushed her too far, she may have Keith, but you have Maribeth."

Steve gave Amanda a small but genuine smile then.  Maribeth was his anchor.  As long as he could explain to her about Em before the press got hold of the story, everything would be ok.  Steve closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths, willing himself to relax.

Alex stopped in his work for a few minutes and stretched.  As he did so, he spotted a familiar and very welcome face watching from the observation gallery.  At his request, the nurse turned on the intercom system, and he spoke with his old friend and mentor.

"Mark, it's good to see you."

"Hello, Alex.  Maribeth, CJ, how's it going?"

The three surgeons looked at each other, then Maribeth replied.  "Slow, Dad," she said, "but she's hanging in there.  She crashed once at the courthouse, but she's held on since then."

"Well," Mark said, brightly, "that's a good sign."

"One can hope," Alex replied.

"What do you mean, Alex?"

"Well, Mark," Alex began in a doleful tone, "CJ and I just spent the last . . . " he glanced at the clock, " . . . three and a half hours picking a dozen pieces of shrapnel out of her chest.  The heart and both lungs were damaged, and the aorta was nicked.  Maribeth dug another five bullet fragments out of her gut, and had to repair a damaged liver and holes in the stomach.  If she doesn't throw a clot or succumb to peritonitis, there's still a chance that she might have suffered brain damage.  She lost so much blood, I'm not sure her brain got enough oxygen on the way from the courthouse to here."

"As bad as all that, is it?"

Maribeth confirmed Alex's speculations.  "Even if Mr. Sunshine here is wrong about everything, Dad, one of the bullets turned her shoulder to hamburger.  I would be very surprised if she ever went back to police work."

"You're saying her career is over, aren't you?"

"There's a chance she'll recover, Dad, but it's a slim one.  Even if there's no nerve damage, the injuries to her muscles, tendons, and the shoulder joint are devastating."

Mark sounded surprisingly cheerful when he replied.  "As long as there's a chance, Maribeth, I'm sure with help from you and Liv she will recover completely.  How much longer do you have to go?"

Alex considered for a moment.  "We're almost finished, Mark.  We need to do one more check to be sure there are no more nasty little bleeders, then we'll close her up and take her to recovery.  When I'm sure she's stable, I'll have her moved to ICU.  Say, another hour, give or take."

Mark nodded, "Ok.  I'm going to see Amanda.  Give me a call when you're ready to talk to Liv and Keith.  I'd like to be there for them."

"Ok, Dad," Maribeth said.

As Mark left the observation gallery, the nurse cut off the intercom, and Maribeth looked to her two younger colleagues and said, "I wonder what brought him out here tonight."

"Alicia?"  Olivia said in surprise as she entered the waiting room again.

"Oh, Aunt Livvie," the young woman cried as she ran across the room to be enveloped in a hug from the older woman.

As Alicia sobbed in her arms, Liv looked to Steven and mouthed the words, 'What in the world?' but Steven just shrugged and looked up as if to indicate that Alicia had just dropped out of the sky as far as he knew.  Slowly, the sobbing calmed.

"Alicia, honey," Olivia held her at arm's length, "look at me.  Why are you here?"

Ever obliging, Alicia started to babble.  "CJ stood me up in Chicago, but he promised to make it up to me when I came out to LA, but he forgot to meet me at the airport, so I caught a cab here, and they told me he was in surgery, and when I went to the observation gallery to speak to him, he told me the patient was a cop who'd been shot saving his Uncle Steve, and then he told me it was Emmy, and, oh, Aunt Liv, what happened?"

Olivia chuckled softly.  Alicia was a few years older than Emmy, but she had been coddled and spoiled by her doting father, and so could seem much younger.  Liv had seen the young surgeon at work a few times, and there was no doubt in any sane medical mind that Alicia Birch-Geiger was the best vascular surgeon on the continent, but outside of medical practice, she'd had little experience with the cruelties of life.  As a result, she tended to fall apart at the drop of a hat.

"Shh!  Alicia, come on.  Sit down, baby."  Olivia guided her gently to a chair, and once she was seated, Liv fished a tissue out of her purse.

As Alicia calmed down, Liv said, "In answer to your question, Emmy was shot four times, but she has three very good doctors working on her, and we're all praying for her, and she did manage to save Steven's dad.  As for the rest of the story, that will keep."

"Steven?"

"Em's boyfriend."  Liv gestured toward the young man, and Steven waved.

Alicia looked to Liv.  "Oh."  Then she looked at Steven and smiled and waved back.

In spite of the serious situation, Liv had to stifle a chuckle and wonder if Steven had decided Alicia was an airhead yet.

"Now," Liv asked, "what were you saying about CJ in Chicago?"

"Finally," Mark muttered as he glanced through the window into the pathology lab.  Steve was sitting at Amanda's desk, with his eyes closed and his hands flat on the desktop.  He watched Steve's shoulders rise and fall several times as he took deep calming breaths and tried to relax while Amanda kneaded his shoulders.

_Well, he seems to be taking it rather well._  Pushing the door open, he said softly so as not to startle his son, "Steve, are you all right?"

Steve opened his eyes wide in horror and then tried to cover with a smile.  "I'm fine, Dad, but I'm worried about my lieutenant."

"I saw the paper, and I . . . figured . . . you might be . . . " Mark trailed off as Amanda stopped the massage she was giving to point at Steve, mime reading the paper, and frantically shake her head no.   

Steve seemed puzzled and, looking oddly relieved, he asked, "It made the papers already?  Isn't it a little late for the evening edition?"  

Amanda yawned and stretched as Steve turned to look at her and say, "Thanks, Amanda, I actually feel a lot better."

Finally comprehending that Steve had no clue about the devastating, slanderous article in the _LA Times_ Mark did his best to cover smoothly.  "I . . . ahhh . . . I guess it just beat the deadline."

He knew there was no way he could spare his son the fallout of such muckraking so-called journalism, but if he could forestall it until morning, at least Steve wouldn't have to face it before he was well-rested.  As he contemplated the slanderous reports his son would have to answer to in the morning, his heart ached, and when Amanda brought him a chair, he accepted it gratefully and pulled it as close to Steve as he could.  Putting a hand on Steve's arm, he said kindly, "It's gonna be all right, son."

Worried as he was about Emily, and his wife and son's reaction to the news that he'd always had another child out in the world, Steve still managed a brave smile for his dad.  Putting his hand over Mark's, he said, "I know, Dad, but thanks for saying so."

Mark, Steve, and Amanda spoke quietly of inconsequential things for a while, then they lapsed into comfortable, if worried, silence.

"Alicia, sweetie, I am sure CJ is a wonderful man," Liv said, "but have you asked how he would feel about you coming to LA permanently?"

Alicia dropped her gaze and said shyly, "No, ma'am," then she looked up and smiled brightly, "but he did say he wanted to see a lot more of me, so I am sure he'll be pleased."

Olivia shook her head at Alicia's impulsive behavior and hoped she was right about her young man.  She hadn't had much of a chance to get to know CJ Livingston-Wagner, but she got the impression that he was a very independent, self-determined person who would object to Alicia's unilateral decision simply on the grounds that he hadn't been consulted.  

As she halfway listened to Alicia natter on about her hopes for a future with CJ, Liv allowed her thoughts to roam, and the first place they stopped was with her daughter.  Emily was strong, but she had been badly injured.  Liv was sure her own heart had stopped when Emmy coded in the elevator, she just didn't know what she would do if . . . Her mind refused to go any further down that path.

Then there was Steve.  Both she and Keith had been deeply touched by his concern for Emily.  It had been encouraging to Liv to see how determined he was to get her back safely, but now that she knew where that drive came from, she wondered if things would ever be right again. How long had it been worrying him, and what would happen when she told him the truth?

Finally, her mind settled on her husband.  Why hadn't Keith spoken up when Steve voiced his concerns?  Why hadn't he defended her?  Come to think of it, he had been cold and distant all day, not once during the whole ordeal had offered her any emotional support.  And where was he now?  Liv grew suddenly angry.  He was her husband!  He should be with her now while her only child was clinging to life!  Then, as quickly as her anger had started, it unexpectedly left her.  Keith was nowhere to be found, and, Liv realized, feeling quite proud and pleased with herself, she was doing just fine without him.

"Ok," Alex said, "I think that does it.  Let's close her up and say a prayer.  Nurse, contact the OR administrator's desk and have them start tracking down this young lady's friends and family so we can fill them all in on her condition."

After stitching Emily's wounds closed, CJ and Maribeth went with her to recovery.  They would continue to monitor her until she was ready to be moved to ICU.  Then, CJ would head home and Maribeth, who was supposed to be on call until noon, would continue checking on her throughout the day.  As Alex watched the gurney roll away, he sighed, stretched, squared his shoulders, and prepared himself to tell Liv, Keith, and the others news they didn't really want to hear.


	25. The Darkest Hour

**(Chapter 25.  CGH, police station, safe house, beach house.  March 28-29, 2033.)**

"Olivia and I talked about it once," Keith said dejectedly, stirring his now cold soup just to have something to do, "shouted about it, actually, threw some things around the house, and decided he just didn't need to know.  We had no idea she would one day come west and start dating his son."

"So tell me why, when you knew about Steven, you still kept quiet," Jesse said in an accusatory tone.  "That was cruel."

"There were other issues to deal with.  He didn't need to know he almost destroyed our marriage before the first year was up," Keith snapped, "and it's not the kind of thing you just bring up out of the blue, doctor.  Besides, he never told us he'd discovered her birthday and worked out the math.  Now, thanks to him, it could all very well be a moot point anyway."

"What happened today wasn't Steve's fault," Jesse defended his friend.

"Who are you kidding, doc?  You weren't even there.  He could have invented an errand for that woman to run, but no.  He let her camp out in the back of the courtroom, and asked _me_ to keep an eye on her, and that's all I was able to do, too."  

The worried father began to struggle with his emotions.  "I sat right there . . . and _watched_ her fire four rounds . . . into my daughter . . . and now, Emily may _die_ . . . because she took . . . four bullets . . . meant for _him_!"  Keith's voice broke on die, and the last of his argument came out between angry sobs.

"Keith," Jesse said gently, "she knew the risks when she became a cop.  She chose to do what she did.  No one could have made her do it.  She did it, because that is the kind of person she is, she was willing to take the risk and make the sacrifice."

"Well, her mother and I weren't.  Did you ever think of that?"  Keith had quickly regained some composure, but Jesse could still hear the tears in his voice.

Jesse searched for something comforting to say, but before he could find the words, Keith's pager beeped.  He switched the thing off and looked to Jesse, "The surgery's over."  A little sheepishly, he said, "They'll meet us in the waiting room, but I didn't go up with O.  Can you tell me how to get there?"

Jesse smiled, "I'll do better than that, I'll walk you there myself."

Keith weakly returned the smile, his anger and fear of a moment ago forgotten in the hope that the news would be good.

"Ok, thank you," Amanda said into the phone as Mark and Steve watched her expectantly, "We'll be there right away."  After she hung up, she looked at her two friends and said, "That was the OR.  Emily is being moved to recovery now."

Steve was up like a shot.  "Let's go," he said, "I need to know how she is."

As he entered the waiting room with Amanda, Mark instantly realized there was far more wrong than the near-fatal shooting of a police lieutenant, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out what the problem was.  Olivia and Keith sat so close not a breath could pass between them, but they were not touching.  Beneath her worry, Liv looked angry.  Keith looked jealous and guilty.  

Steve, who had been so anxious for word of Emily's condition that he had sprinted up the steps ahead of the elevator carrying his father and Amanda, was now pacing frantically, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.  

Steven sat on a sofa in the corner next to a pretty young woman whom Mark did not know.  Both of them seemed worried, but they both also had that youthful confidence in the ultimate kindness of the world.  Mark hoped for their sakes and Emily's that life would not choose tonight to shatter that confidence.  

Charles Donovan had claimed a chair in the opposite corner where he sat clutching a rolled up newspaper.  He looked pale and ill and seemed to be trying to become invisible.

Jesse sat in one of a row of straight-backed chairs against the wall and pleaded with his eyes for Mark and Amanda to join him.  When they sat beside him, Jesse said in a low voice, "Things are getting really weird here."

Nodding, Mark said, "I can tell.  Do you know what's up?"

Jesse shrugged.  "Lauren got a hold of me a while ago.  Can I assume you read the paper?"

"Oh, yeah," Mark confirmed, "but Steve hasn't, and he's going to have a rough time when he does."

"Well, we'll all be here for him," Jesse assured his friend and mentor.  "Keith has seen it, but I don't think anyone else here has.  The girl next to Steven is CJ's girlfriend, or so she says.  You met her at Steve and Liv's . . . wedding.  You remember Jeffrey Geiger's little girl?"

Mark frowned, then nodded.  "Yes, I do.  So, that's her all grown up.  Alicia, right?  The one who's been publishing all that new vascular and heart research?"

"Yeah.  She hasn't said much, but I have heard through the grapevine from some of my mother's former colleagues that except for being an incredibly talented vascular surgeon, she is a total airhead."

"You watch what you say about my son's girlfriend," Amanda protested.

Jesse grinned, "Just wait until she starts talking.  You'll agree with me then."

"You said she hadn't said much yet."

"She didn't need to."

Amanda opened her mouth to reply, but closed it without a word when Alex walked in.  Liv was off the couch, across the room, and firing off questions before her disabled husband could even stand.

"How is she?  Where is she?  When can I see her?  What can you tell me about her injuries?"

"Stop it, Olivia," Alex said gently but firmly.  "I'll answer all your questions, but you have to let me talk."

"I . . . I know, Alex.  I'm sorry.  I've just been so worried."

"It's ok," Alex reassured her.  "Let's go sit.  CJ and Maribeth are getting Emily settled right now."

As Alex walked Liv back to her seat, Keith who had finally managed to get to his feet, plopped back down on the couch with a look of complete frustration.  Steven brought over a chair for the weary surgeon while everyone else drew closer to hear what he had to say.

"Ok," Liv said brightly, "tell me the good news first.  I need something good to hang on to."

Alex looked very worried and uncomfortable, then he smiled weakly, and said, "Well, she didn't code during surgery, and her condition now is stable."

Liv waited expectantly for several moments, then her smile faded, she grew very still, and frowned thoughtfully, "Oh," she said softly, "I see.  That _is_ the good news."

"I wish I could say something more, Liv," Alex said, "but the simple fact that she survived the surgery was more then we expected."

Liv forced a smile and replied, "You don't know my daughter.  She's tough.  She'll make it."

Alex wasn't sure whether to be cheered or concerned by Liv's confidence.  On the one hand, she probably knew Emily as well as any doctor in the world and would be the best one to suggest a prognosis.  On the other hand, if she was wrong and her daughter did not recover, it would be devastating to have her hopes dashed.

"Alex, what else do I need to know?"

Alex took a deep breath and began the litany of Emily's injuries.  "She was struck with four ceramic polycarbonate bullets which shattered into almost two dozen sharp-edged fragments on impact.  The shards from three of those bullets pierced both lungs, her heart, stomach, and liver.  The fourth disintegrated inside her shoulder joint.  I would estimate that she lost at least half of her blood supply on the way to the hospital."  

Alex stopped talking then.  He felt a bit awkward about explaining anything more.  Liv was a doctor, and she knew exactly what complications could arise from Emmy's injuries.  Strangely, he realized that no one else in the room had said a word.  He wasn't sure if they were each trapped in their own horrible imaginings or if they were simply deferring to Olivia as the patient's mother, but he was grateful that he didn't have to field a lot of questions.  Finally, Liv broke the silence.

"Please, Alex, keep going.  I know what you're going to say, but I need you to say it, because I . . . I can't."

Alex nodded, and began talking again.  

"There is a possibility of brain damage due to the blood loss.  If she wasn't getting enough oxygen to her brain, . . . well, we won't be able to assess that unless . . . until she comes to.  CJ is concerned about the possibility of her throwing a blood clot, but I suppose you know the chance of that is always high with these sorts of injuries."  When Liv nodded, he continued.  "Gastric contents were leaking into her abdominal cavity, so she is on antibiotics to prevent peritonitis, and her liver was badly damaged so we will have to monitor its function for a while.  The next three days are going to be touch and go, Liv.  I honestly don't know how she held on as long as she did."

"Ok," Liv said, "she makes it through the next three days, and then what?"

Alex had to smile.  While he didn't expect Emily to live until dawn, if a mother's unflagging faith counted for anything, she was already well on the road to recovery.

"If she makes it through the next seventy two hours," Alex stressed the 'if' slightly because he felt he needed to make it clear how unlikely he thought that was, "we wait for her to wake up.  Then, if she wakes up," again he stressed the 'if', and felt bad when he saw Liv flinch, "we assess her for any possible brain damage and start her on physical therapy for her shoulder as soon as possible.  I'm not sure how bad that injury is; you'll have to talk to Maribeth, but there is a chance that, even if she recovers, she will never work as a cop again."

Olivia nodded and smiled as bravely as she could manage.  "Ok.  Thank you, Alex, for being honest.  When can we see her?"

Alex opened his mouth to answer, but Maribeth, who had just entered the room, replied.  "In about twenty minutes.  CJ is just briefing the ICU nurses.  Then he needs to sign off on her chart, and he will join us.  Liv, Keith, I'm so sorry."

As she had been talking, Maribeth had moved across the room to the worried parents, and, on her final words, she wrapped Olivia in a hug and said, "If there is anything I can do, just say so, ok?"

Liv gasped slightly, and trembled in Maribeth's embrace, fighting the tears that were never far off these days.  Nodding, but not trusting herself to speak, she stepped back and answered with a grateful smile.

Maribeth knew Olivia and Keith were anxious to hear what she had to say, but there was something she desperately needed to do first.  Turning to Steven, she caressed her son's cheek and gave him a quick kiss.

"Are you ok?"

Smiling, her beautiful boy said simply, "Yes, Mom."

Nodding, she turned to her husband.  He seemed particularly tense, even more so than was usual these days, and she knew he had realized, just as she had, that if not for Emily's incredibly selfless actions, he would be the one clinging to life by his fingernails.  She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard, thanking God she was able to do so, and suddenly she was fighting tears.  A moment later, as Steve's arms came up around her, she found her strength inside their circle, and knew she could hold on a little longer, for Liv and Keith's sake.

Stepping back from the hug, holding Steve's gaze for a moment, she let her hand slide down Steve's arm until she felt his fingers entwine with her own.  Then she turned to face the parents of the amazing young woman who had been willing to sacrifice herself to protect him.

"Now," Maribeth said kindly, smiling at Liv and Keith, "I have some more news for you."

"W-What now?" Olivia asked, dreading what she might hear despite the encouraging smile that came with the words.

"Well, when CJ and I settled Emily in ICU, we had to disconnect the ventilator for a bit.  You know the procedure."

Liv nodded.

"Well, she is already trying to breathe on her own.  She managed several normal breaths, but she's too weak to sustain respiration, so we had to put her back on the vent.  Still, if we can get her breathing on her own a little more every day . . ."

"She will recover faster," Liv finished, smiling brightly.  "That is good news, thank you, Maribeth."

"You're welcome," Maribeth replied, "Now, Alex is on duty until six a.m., and I will be on call until noon, so we have to get back to work, but CJ said he'd drop by and let you know when Emily is ready for visitors, and then I think he's going home."

"Ok, Maribeth, and thank you again."

"No need to thank me," she said.  Then, growing very serious, she added, "I know the two of you are very worried about Emily, and you should be, but don't forget to look after yourselves and each other, ok?"

Liv and Keith both nodded mutely and instinctively grasped hands.

Turning to Alex with a smile, Maribeth said, "Now, Dr. Martin, I think you are due in ER, and I have patients to attend.  Shall we go?"

The room descended into tense silence again as the two doctors left, but this time there was an undercurrent of hope.

"I really wish you hadn't done that," Alex said with a sigh when he and Maribeth were out of earshot of the people in the waiting room.

"Done what?"

"Given them false hope, that's what!"  Alex was suddenly irate.  Maribeth knew as well as anyone that Emily's chances of survival were somewhere between nil and zero, and yet she had told Keith and Liv that their injured daughter was 'trying to breathe on her own' when she knew full well that the reflexive action was merely a sign that the brainstem had not yet shut down.

Maribeth stopped and turned to him saying, "You know, Marilyn and I talked once about why you and she had decided not to have kids.  I understand your decision, Alex, but there are lessons the two of you never learned, because only parents ever get the chance to learn them."

Surprised by the sudden change of topic, Alex merely nodded.  Marilyn's older brother had died of complications associated with Lesch-Nyhan Syndrome when he was a teenager, so when she and Alex had gotten married, Marilyn had requested genetic testing, and was found positive for the genetic defects.  Since the condition was sex-linked, if they ever had a son, there was a fifty percent chance he would have the disorder, and the odds that a baby girl would be a carrier were also fifty-fifty.  Marilyn had had certain moral qualms with in-vitro fertilization for the purpose of choosing a baby's genetic characteristics, and all Alex had ever wanted was for his wife to be happy, so he never pushed the issue.  At one time, they had tried to adopt, but after their plans collapsed around them for the third time, they had decided to instead devote their time and energy to each other, their friends and their friends' children, and their pets.

Suddenly remembering their initial subject of conversation, he asked, "So, what lesson have I failed to learn here?"

Ignoring his question, Maribeth countered with another of her own.  "Alex, do you remember when I had that miscarriage a couple of years after Steven was born?"

Again confused, all he could do was answer.  "Yes, why?  What does that have to do with Liv and Keith?"

"Was there any way that baby could have had a normal life?"

"No, almost none.  You were not only exposed to rubella, you came down with it," Alex replied, as if the answer were obvious.  "It would have taken a miracle.  If that baby had survived, it would have been retarded and had terrible birth defects.  It probably would have suffered a while and died at a young age."

"I know, but Steve and I decided to give it a chance anyway.  Do you know why?"

Alex shook his head.  "No."

"Because we were hoping for a miracle."

Alex's expression of confusion slipped into one of thoughtful puzzlement, and now that Maribeth knew she had him thinking, she continued.

"Parents live on hope as much as they do food and water, Alex.  From the moment they know they are pregnant, they begin to hope for things.  Moms hope for an easy pregnancy.  Dads hope they can get to the hospital in time for the delivery.  We hope for happy, healthy babies who sleep through the night at an early age," she said with a smile.  "We hope for good teachers and safe schools.  We hope that our children will be polite and kind, well liked and successful, and that they will stay away from drugs and keep out of trouble.  We hope for so many things, Alex, and at times like these, we hope for miracles."

"But Maribeth . . . "

"Shhh," she hushed him, tears in her eyes, "they know she probably won't make it through the night, but until she's gone, they have to hold on to that slim hope.  It's the only thing left that they can do for her.  Do you understand?"

Alex looked at Maribeth for a moment, and could tell she was thinking about Steve and how different her world would be right now if Emily had not protected him.  Then he thought about Marilyn.  If she were the one in ICU, he wouldn't want anybody telling him how bad the odds were against her, and finally he understood.

Nodding, he said, "I hope she makes it too, Maribeth.  I really do."

Maribeth smiled.  "I know that, Alex, but you are her doctor, and you know the facts.  So do Keith and Liv, but because they're her parents, they don't have to face the truth until it happens."

"Ok, I think I understand," Alex conceded, and with that, they headed off to their duties.

By eleven that night, the crowd waiting for more news on Emily had diminished to five.  After Maribeth and Alex had gone back to work, Jesse headed home.  Once Steven had called Ron on the secure cell phone, Steve had left with Officer Donovan to question Leigh Ann at the precinct.  Amanda had ostensibly gone off to finish an autopsy, but Mark knew she was really planning to tell Maribeth about the article in the _Times_ because he had asked her to do so.

As he spoke quietly to Alicia, Mark surveyed the room.  Steven was now sitting in his own private world, staring blindly at a magazine he was too tired and worried to read.  Liv and Keith had given up all pretense of unity, and were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, facing away from each other, sulking and worrying by themselves.  And as for Alicia, well, Mark thought Jesse would do well to speak to the girl for himself before listening to gossip from the medical community.  Mark had found her an intelligent and well-informed conversation companion, and smiling as he listened to her go on about something she had learned surfing the net, he realized that in some ways, she reminded him very much of a certain naïve and enthusiastic young medical student he had met almost forty years ago.

" . . . and I don't care what anyone says, Dr. Sloan.  Our government has admitted to conducting research in which disadvantaged patients were allowed to die of such easily cured diseases as syphilis.  They have admitted to using LSD on our own soldiers and to dumping viruses into the jet-stream to see where they would go in case of biological warfare.  They also knew the truth about the Gulf War Syndrome for years before they started doing anything to help the victims.  If they would _admit_ to such horrible, unconscionable, pseudo-scientific atrocities, what do _you_ think they're _hiding_ at Area 51?  CJ!"

For a moment, Mark was profoundly confused, but as he watched the young woman run to embrace his godson, he realized she was simply greeting him and not suggesting that some mysterious men with evil intent were hiding him in the desert.  CJ slipped his arm comfortably around Alicia's waist and came further into the room as Keith and Liv rose to meet him.  Steven helped Mark to his feet, and they, too, moved forward to hear the most recent news.

To Mark's practiced eye, the young doctor looked tired, and he wasn't surprised when CJ started briefing them on Emily's condition without preamble.

"She is in very bad shape," CJ said, "and I really don't know when, or even if she will wake up.  As long as there is hope, we will do everything possible to help her, but I think you may need to prepare yourselves for the worst.  I'm sorry."

"No."  Keith said, "No!  Maribeth said she was trying to breathe.  That has to be good."

"Mr. Stephens, that could have just been reflex.  She . . . "  
  


"No, dammit.  She's going to be all right.  She has to."

"Keith," Olivia put a hand on his arm, but he shook her off.

"I said no!  She will be ok, O!"

Olivia folded her arms and turned slightly away from him.  "All right, Keith."

Smiling desperately, he turned back to CJ and asked, "When can we see her?"

CJ smiled back, and tried to be encouraging.  "Right now.  Uncle Mark, Steven, Alicia, you can have five minutes, no more, and after that, you can only go in two at a time.  Keith and Liv, you can sit with her as long as you want, but if anything happens, even a blink, you call the nurse and have her page Alex, or Maribeth.  Tomorrow, you can page Jesse or me, ok?"

The worried parents nodded.

"All right, then.  CJ checked his watch.  It's eleven thirty.  I've been on duty since one.  I'm going home now, but I will see all of you tomorrow.  Alicia, I will call in at the hotel around nine to meet you for breakfast if you like."

She smiled and nodded, "Ok, I'll look forward to it."

Mark declined to go into the ICU room.  He had never met Emily, and was concerned that she might be disturbed by a stranger's presence in the room.  Privately, he also thought it would be a good time to go see Amanda and find out how Maribeth was taking the news of the _Times_ article.  Asking Steven to find him in the path lab before he left the hospital, Mark said his goodbyes, gave Liv and Keith his best wishes for Emily, and headed downstairs.

"Why did you do it, Leigh Ann?" Steve asked from across the room.  Donovan was there as a witness to the questioning and to run the tape recorder, and Steve again found himself strangely grateful for the young man's steady presence.  The freckle faced, redheaded rookie had been a reassuring constant throughout the difficult day and the surreal evening.

"I hate you," she hissed, glaring up at her former boss.  

Steve never would have gotten as far as he had in the LAPD if he had been easily frightened, but the venom in her words sent chills down his spine.  He paced a moment, trying to appear cool and trying to make the goose bumps go away.  As casually as he could, he asked her, "Why?"

Her smile was that of a snarling animal.  "If you don't understand, there's no point explaining."

Trying to hide a gasp of surprise as he saw the insanity light her eyes, Steve wondered precisely when she had gone mad.  _Maybe she always has been this way, and you just never noticed._  "Try me," he said.  

"Ross Cainin was my father," Leigh Ann spat at him as if that was all the explanation he should need.

"I know that," Steve replied.  "But why did you try to kill me?"

Leigh Ann started to chuckle.  "I meant to kill you.  That's right, but I think it worked out better this way.  You took my daddy away from me, and I took your daughter away from you.  That is a fair trade."  

"I don't have a daughter," he said.  _There is no way she could know about what I said in the hospital.  She was in custody before we left the courthouse, wasn't she?_

"Yes, you do," Leigh Ann insisted in a childish tone, "the blood test was inconclusive, but you know she's yours, and you still let her sleep with your son.  That is sick.  I wonder what your wife will say?"  

"Blood test?" Steve croaked, dreading what she might say next.

"Oh, don't play dumb, Chief," she used the tone of a patient parent speaking to a dense child.  "I know you found the tapes at Mr. Gorini's place."  

"Tapes?"  The chill Steve had felt when they started talking had moved deep within him when he saw Donovan blanch.  Leigh Ann seemed to have the upper hand somehow, even though she sat before him, alone because she had refused a lawyer, and in full restraints because she had tried to assassinate him.

"Yes, two of everything, remember?  Oh, except, of course, for that one where you are asking Dr. Bentley to run a paternity test for you, comparing your DNA to that of Lieutenant Stephens."  

Steve's stomach gave a sickening twist as he remembered the bug Ron had found in Amanda's lab.  At the time, they had no idea whose it was, and he had never looked into the full catalog of tapes found at Gorini's apartment.

A lunatic smile brightened Leigh Ann's face as she rambled on, oblivious of her former employer's growing distress.  "By the time that bastard bitch of yours is cold in the ground, you will have lost everything you ever gave a damn about, Chief.  Your wife will leave you; your son will hate you.  Your father and friends will be ashamed of you, your reputation will be in ashes, and you will probably lose your job because you covered for a dirty cop.  Maybe you could salvage some dignity by claiming old age clouded your judgment, but that would only prove you're an old fool clinging to a younger man's job, too vain and proud to admit you are well past your prime.  Everything that matters will be stripped away from you."  Sounding very satisfied, she concluded,  "I think that's a fair trade for my father and my lover."

Leigh Ann began to chuckle again, a deep, throaty, demented sound, and though he was not a superstitious man, Steve knew it wouldn't take much to convince him that she had demons in her.

Keith entered the ICU aware that he was clutching his wife's hand like a frightened child.  He was limping heavily from the stress related pain in his prosthetic legs, but he didn't need her support to walk, he was just terrified to see what condition his daughter was in.

"O, there are so many tubes.  Why are there so many tubes?"

"She has a lot of incisions.  They're to drain off the fluids that accumulate in the surgical wounds to let them heal faster."

"What about the ones going into her?"

Olivia looked at the various bags hanging from the IV pole.  "Blood, fluids and nutrients, antibiotics.  She needs them all to stay alive."

"Oh."  After a moment, Keith added, "She looks blue."

"She's so pale because she lost so much blood.  Her color will improve as her blood supply replenishes."

Keith nodded, then closed his eyes against the tears.  "I-I'm sorry," he choked out on a strangled sob.  Then he let go of his wife's hand, turned away, and limped out of the room.

Olivia watched him in surprise for a moment, then, deciding her daughter needed her more than her husband, she pulled up a chair and sat at her bedside.  As she sat there, holding and stroking Emily's cold hand, she watched as Steven and Alicia did what they could to reassure themselves that Emmy was still there and to encourage her to come back to them.

"Em, I want you to listen to me."  The young man's voice trembled, and Olivia placed her free hand on his shoulder for a moment so he could draw strength.  "Em, CJ is only allowing me five minutes to visit right now because he thinks you are so ill.  I need you to convince him you're gonna be ok so I can stay longer.  I've . . . missed you," this time his voice cracked, "and I don't want to be away from you any longer.  Please," he begged, "get better quick."

Steven kissed Emily on the forehead, then, and stood slightly off to the side so Alicia could get closer.

"Oh, Emmy," Alicia said in a childish tone that made Liv smile because she knew it would grate on Emily's nerves, "After all these years, trouble still comes looking for you, doesn't it?"  She brushed some hair off Emily's face and said, "Well, you're safe here, girlfriend, and you have a sexy man waiting for you.  Don't keep him waiting too long.  Don't keep any of us waiting.  We all need you."

By eleven forty-five, Alicia gave her friend a kiss on the cheek and, taking Steven's hand, she quietly left Olivia alone in the room with her daughter.

"Cioffi?  What the hell are you doing here?" Chief Sloan demanded as he stalked through the squad room on the way to the elevator up to his office.  Charles Donovan hurried to keep up, and 'Fredo Cioffi automatically fell in stride beside his friend when the Chief continued walking as he spoke.

"Agent Wagner sent me home, Chief.  He's going to arrange twelve-hour shifts, and I'm not due back until noon, sir."

"Then you should be home, asleep," the Chief said.

"Yes, sir, I just thought I should check in here, first.  How is the lieutenant, sir?"

"Alive.  I want you and Donovan in my office now."

"Yes, sir," both men replied, though they were already almost there.

"Emily," Liv said softly, "Emmmmilyyyy.  Listen to me, baby.  We're all real worried about you, and we really need to know you're still with us.  I know you're tired, and I know you hurt, but could you just do something to let me know you're there?"

Liv thought she felt an increase in the pressure on her hand.

"Oh, God, sweetie!" she whispered, "Do that again, so I'm sure I'm not mistaken."

This time the squeeze was stronger.  Emily's eyes popped open, and two tears slipped toward her ears.

"Now, can you stay awake just long enough for one of your doctors to check you?"  Olivia pressed the buzzer and soon heard the nurses paging Alex and Maribeth.

Em squeezed again, and her free hand flailed about in the air.  Gently pressing the hand back to the mattress, Liv said, "Mr. Moretti is all right, and the Chief is fine.  I'm so proud of you, and I love you so much."

Emily nodded slightly, then she squeezed her mother's hand hard and writhed in obvious pain.  Her eyes rolled up in her head, and then she went limp.  Over the wailing alarms, Liv heard the nurses paging Maribeth and Alex again.

"Dad," Maribeth pleaded as she slumped in a chair beside Amanda's desk in the path lab, "I'm too tired to read the paper now.  Can't it wait until morning?"

"I wish it could, Maribeth," Mark said.  

As Amanda called up the e-edition of the times, Maribeth put her head down on the desk and pretended to snore.  "Too late," she said, her words muffled because her head was buried in her arms, "I'm already asleep."

_Doctors Maribeth Sloan and Alex Martin to ICU.  Doctors Sloan and Martin to ICU._

As Maribeth got up to go, Mark sighed deeply.  She smiled, and said, "Saved by the bell.  I promise I'll read it when I get home."

_Doctors Maribeth Sloan and Alex Martin to ICU CODE BLUE!  Doctors Sloan and Martin to ICU CODE BLUE!_

As his daughter-in-law sprinted off to her patient, Mark looked after her and said to himself, "By then, it may be too late."

"Just for your information, gentlemen," Steve lectured the frightened young cops after getting to the bottom of the mystery of the missing tape, "I have done things I am ashamed of in my life, but I have never, _ever, _done _anything_ I had to hide from, and I certainly do _not_ need a couple of _rookies_ protecting me.  Do. You. Understand?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" Cioffi and Donovan replied in unison.  Then Cioffi spoke up.

"Sir, with all due respect, sir, Charles . . . "

Steve cleared his throat.

"I mean, Officer Donovan may have hidden the tape, but I was the one who found it, and I should have stopped him."

"You're right, Officer, and that is why I am suspending you, too."

"Sir," Donovan broke in, "I was the one who hid the tape . . ."

"_I don't care!!!"_ Steve roared, then tightly continued, "Cioffi heard it too, and should have brought it to my attention when it was not on the inventory.  Now get me that damned cassette, clean out your lockers, and go the hell home.  You are both suspended without pay until further notice.  I want you to stay away from Moretti, stay away from this department, stay away from Lieutenant Stephens, and stay the hell away from me until Internal Affairs says you're clear to go back to work.  Officer Cioffi, I will contact Agent Wagner and let him know you will not be able to protect Moretti as planned."

"But Chief," Cioffi replied, horrified, "my dad is there!"

"I know, officer, and as a father myself, I know how disappointed he will be.  Perhaps next time, if there is a next time, you will consider that before you conceal evidence.  You are dismissed."

Donovan turned and started to walk out, but when he realized that 'Fredo was still standing before the Chief's desk, devastated more by the fact that his father _would_ find out what he'd been a party to than by the fact that the Chief _had _found out, he went back and, taking him by the elbow guided him out of the office.

"She squeezed my hand and opened her eyes," Liv spoke over the alarms as she stepped away from the bed to let Maribeth and Alex examine her.  "She was crying, and then it seemed like she suffered some sort of acute, severe pain.  She squirmed a bit, like she was frightened, and then she coded."

"I'm getting way too much blood from these drains," Maribeth said as they worked to stabilize Emily.  They had shocked her back to the world of the living, but her heartbeat was still erratic and her blood pressure was still plummeting.

"Do you think the squirming around could have torn something open inside of her, Liv?"

"Maybe, but there was something else wrong before that.  The pain precipitated the movement, not the other way round."  Liv was working in doctor mode at the moment, and there was nothing in her of the frantic parent.

"Ok," Alex said tensely as they prepared Emily for transport back to the OR, "we must have missed something.  With the rapid pulse and dropping BP, it must be internal bleeding.  Nurse, have Dr. Livingston-Wagner paged to the OR for me."

"No!"  Maribeth snapped, "He went home."

"Well, then, do we have a vascular surgeon on call?"

"Not on Mondays."  At his questioning look, Maribeth elaborated while she hooked up the portable ventilator, "As far as I know, I am the only one on the surgical service on call tonight.  Monday nights are usually slow because everyone is too tired from starting a new work week to get into much trouble that would require our services."

Alex gave her a look that was a combination of disgust and frustration.  Between budget cuts and a dearth of qualified doctors, Community General had been experiencing staff shortages for several years.  More than once he'd found himself wondering if a patient he'd lost would have survived had there been a specialist available immediately.  He always came to the same conclusion--that he'd done everything he could and the patient's death wasn't his fault, but somehow, he knew, 'It wasn't my fault,' would ring especially hollow this time.

Sparing a glance from her daughter to the three worried faces peering in the window from the hall, Liv said, "Alex, Alicia's still here."

"Alicia?" Alex grunted as he helped transfer Emily to a gurney to transport her to the OR.

"Birch-Geiger.  From Chicago Hope?"

"I don't know, Liv, she doesn't have admitting privileges here, and I heard she was kind of . . . flaky."

"I don't care if she's a snowdrift, Alex," Liv said, standing aside to let the gurney pass.  "She's the best damned vascular surgeon in the country and she's here, now, when we need her.  I'll sign any waivers you want, but please, let her help Emily."

There was no mistaking the pleading in Liv's voice, and as he helped push the gurney out the door, Alex said, "Come scrub up, Dr. Geiger, you're needed in the OR."  He knew he'd be called to answer to the board for his actions in this case, but he really didn't care.  He just hoped breaking the rules would give Emily a better chance of survival.

Steve sighed.  It had been a long day, and he was tired, but before he could go home, he'd had to call Ron and tell him about 'Fredo Cioffi's suspension.  Ron wasn't happy at all with the situation, but promising him that Cheryl would remain on Moretti's guard detail had placated him somewhat.  Looking at the clock, Steve realized it was just past midnight.  Suddenly feeling bone tired, he decided to stay home tomorrow.  _Though I guess it's today now.  _He smiled, knowing his wife would be pleased.

As he placed the secure cell phone in his briefcase alongside some folders, Steve reflected for a moment on his conversation with Leigh Ann.  It had been like a lunatic's game of cat and mouse.  For some reason, Steve got the distinct impression that even though she had been the one who was trapped, he had been the mouse.  He couldn't say exactly why, but he had the horrible feeling things were spiraling further out of his control by the minute.  He tried to shake off a chill, but it just wouldn't go away, nor would the dreadful thought that the situation would get much worse before it got any better.  When the phone rang, his stomach lurched, and he muttered to himself, 'Now what?'

"Sloan here," Steve answered his phone grumpily.  "Oh, man . . . Why? . . . I see.  Amanda, what do you think her chances are? . . . Oh . . . Umm, Amanda?"  Steve swallowed hard.  "What do you think I should do?"

Amanda could hear the pain in Steve's voice.  Though he still had no conclusive proof, he was so sure Emily was his daughter, and Amanda could tell he wanted to be there for her.  It didn't matter to him that she didn't know what he was to her, he just wanted the chance to say goodbye if he should lose her or the chance to offer her some support should she survive her injuries.

"I think if you want to be here, you should come," Amanda told him.  "Go to the waiting room.  Ask Liv and Keith if you can sit with them.  If they say no, come to the lab and you can sit with me until we have word."

"O-ok," Steve said.  "I'll do that.  Thanks, Amanda."

"It's gotta be her kidneys," Alicia said.

"Can't be," Maribeth disagreed, suctioning away more blood.  "All of the bullet fragments are accounted for, and none of them penetrated that low in the abdomen."

Alicia took a deep breath and continued working.  She often had trouble getting people to take her seriously and she knew it was because she didn't know much about the world, but dammit, she had proven time and again that she knew about medicine.  Why did she always have to fight this same battle?

"Look," she said as patiently as she could, while she probed deeper into her friend's body, "if it were the heart, aorta, or vena cava, she would already be dead.  If it were the lungs, there would probably be air bubbles.  If it were the stomach or intestines, we would smell it, and if it were the liver, well, by the time she coded, she would have been out of OR long enough to be jaundiced.  What else could possibly bleed this much?"

Maribeth was silent a moment, then she conceded, "Kidneys."

"So, what do we do?" Alex asked.  "Close her up and turn her over?"

"No time," Alicia said, knowing Emily's vitals were slipping by the second.  "We move things aside and press on from here."

For several minutes, the three surgeons worked in virtual silence, suctioning off blood, moving aside bowels and other organs, and struggling to create a space where they could assess Emily's injuries and repair them.  Suddenly, the three of them gasped in unison, and after a beat, Alicia said, "What in the hell happened here?"  She knew no answer was forthcoming, and did not wait for one, instead holding out her hand and requesting a vascular clamp.

"So, I was hoping, if you wouldn't mind, I could stay here until you got word on how she was doing."  Steve looked down at his hands.  The were shaking, and so was his voice, and so were his knees, and he was sure if Liv and Keith sent him away he would collapse or cry before he got out of the room.

When neither Keith nor Steven replied, Liv smiled slightly, grateful that Steve hadn't said anything about Emily being his daughter.  That was something she just couldn't deal with yet.  It was too much to explain, and she simply wasn't up to it.

"It will be a while yet," Liv said as she headed over to the coffeemaker.  "Do you want regular or decaf?"  As she poured the coffee, Liv watched Keith limp out of the room and shook her head.  Whatever was eating him, he would have to work it out on his own.  She was barely holding herself together as it was.

"Al," Ron said to his colleague when Moretti headed off to the bedroom, "I have news from Chief Sloan for you.  I don't think you're going to like it . . . "

"Look, 'Fredo," Charles Donovan said placing a hand on his friend's arm, "I'm sorry, but it will be ok, really."  They were just leaving the precinct after having cleared out their lockers and turned in their guns and badges.

'Fredo shook himself free of Donovan's grasp and turned to face him.  "You just don't get it, do you?  Sloan is your hero, and there isn't anything you wouldn't do to protect him, is there?"

"He's a great cop," Charles said, standing straighter and puffing out his chest defiantly.  "That tape had nothing to do with any current investigation."

"So you hid it to protect him, is that it?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"Charles, you're an idiot," young Cioffi said as he crossed the parking lot to his car, Donovan walking beside him, "and I should have made you turn the tape in the day we found it.  I like the Chief.  He's a good guy and a great cop, but my dad is my hero.  He never knew his own father, but he learned how to be a damned good one for me.  Now, when he finds out about this, he's going to be ashamed and disappointed."

"He'll get over it . . . "

"That's not the point!"  When Charles looked at him in confusion, 'Fredo just shook his head and said, "Aww, I'm goin' home."

"Ok.  I'll call you tomorrow."

"Don't bother.  I don't want to talk to you."

'Fredo got in his car and drove off, leaving Donovan to wonder what he had done that was so awful.

Liv sat curled up on the corner of the couch in a daze, Steve's jacket wrapped around her shoulders to ward off the chill.  This had to be the longest night of her life.  Keith had disappeared on her again, Steven had finally succumbed to the need for sleep and was dozing in the recliner in the corner of the room, and she and Steve hadn't said two words to each other since she had poured him a cup of coffee when he asked permission to wait with them for word on Em's condition.  Now, all she could think about was wanting one more chance to tell Emmy how much she loved her, and slowly, two tears slipped down her face.

"Liv?" Steve said, and came to sit beside her.

She dabbed at the tears and shook her head.  "I'm ok, Steve, just thinking."

"About?"

Liv wrapped her arms around herself and began to rock.  "About Emily.  She and I have always had a . . . painful . . . relationship from the day she was born.  We both nearly died then.  It has never been easy or good between us.  I just wanted her to know that no matter how bad things got, I never, not even for a moment, ever stopped loving her."

The rocking alarmed Steve, but he was encouraged that Liv was talking about her troubles.  As long as she was talking, she couldn't slip off inside herself like she had the night of the sting when Emily and Moretti had delivered six mobsters, including Joey Russo, who had taken them straight to Roger Gorini's tapes.  Suppressing a shudder of his own as he thought about the tape Donovan had hidden to protect him, Steve said as cheerfully as he could, "Well, Liv, all you have to do is tell her so."

"I know, Steve.  That's all I ever had to do, but I didn't, and now I may never have the chance!"  Liv wasn't crying really, but she was still rocking, and her tears were falling faster than before.

Steve slipped an arm around her shoulders and stilled the rocking.  Hugging her close to his side, he shushed and soothed her and pressed a kiss to her hair, and for a long time they just sat close together, holding on and gaining strength from one another.  Neither of them saw Keith when he stopped by and looked in the door, shook his head in disgust and limped away.

Alicia sighed as she looked in on her childhood friend in ICU.  She had been elected to give Keith and Liv the details of Emily's condition this time, and she knew exactly why.  Alex and Maribeth had both been embarrassed about missing Emily's damaged kidney, Maribeth even more so than Alex because she had been the one assigned to repair the damage in Emily's abdomen and had then doubted Alicia's diagnosis when Emily was rushed back into surgery.  Alicia had tried to placate them both, reminding them that they were looking for injuries caused by bullets and not blunt force trauma, but neither of them would accept the excuses she made for them.  When you got right down to it, they had missed a serious injury, and it had nearly cost Emily her life.

Sighing again, Alicia headed to the women's locker room to change into clean scrubs.  She didn't want Olivia to see her covered in Emily's blood.

"I can't believe he did that," Al Cioffi said, shocked.

"Well, he did," Ron said, "and he admitted as much to Chief Sloan."

Pacing agitatedly, Al rambled, "You know, I have been a cop since before he was born.  I've had to make tough decisions, and I've suffered for them, but I have never, ever broken regulations.  He knows better."

"You never once broke any regs?" Ron asked, doubtfully.

"Never."

"Never stretched the interpretation of probable cause to validate a search on someone you knew was guilty?  Never fixed a ticket for your wife when the kids were small and she double parked because she just needed to pop into a store to pick up one or two items and couldn't find a decent parking spot?  Never let someone get by without using their lights on a rainy day because you didn't want to get out and get wet?  Never maybe used slightly more force than necessary to subdue a resisting suspect because he was such a disgusting excuse for a human being that you wanted to kick the crap out of him and knew you'd never get away with that?"

Cioffi stopped his pacing and frowned, shamefaced, knowing he'd been caught in a lie he hadn't realized he was telling.  Finally, lamely, he said, "No one enforces the headlights law.  It's only a twenty-five-dollar fine, and not worth the risk of making a stop or the hassle of getting wet."

"But you still know better, don't you?"

Al just nodded.

"Look, from what Steve tells me, it sounds like 'Fredo and Donovan did the wrong thing for the right reason," Ron tried to reassure the upset father.  "They'll both get reprimanded and remain on their probationary period a while longer, but they'll be ok."

"They still shouldn't have done it."

"Maybe not, Al, but listen.  I know you, and I know you raised your boy right.  Donovan seems like a good kid, too, and I doubt that either of them would have done this if it had been a criminal matter."

Al gave a resigned sigh, and then grumbled, "I suppose you're right, but when I get through with that boy, he's gonna wonder why people worry about Internal Affairs."

In the other room, Moretti, who had been eavesdropping on the entire conversation, had to grin when he heard Agent Wagner chuckle.  Somehow, he knew his son was only half exaggerating.

"Alicia!  How is she?"  Liv, who by three in the morning had finally relaxed a little as she sat beside Steve, was instantly alert again.  Her exclamation had woken Steven and now both of them and Steve were pelting the young woman with questions.

"What was wrong?"

"Why'd she crash?"

"Will she be ok?"

"Can we see her?"

Taking Olivia gently by the elbow and leaving the men to follow, Alicia led the worried mother over to the couch.  "Let's have a seat.  Keith will be in shortly.  I saw him coming down the hall as I was entering the lounge.  Emily's still holding her own, but obviously, she's a little worse for wear now."

"Alicia," Keith said, entering the lounge, "how's my daughter?"

Indicating an empty spot on the couch beside Olivia, Alicia said, "Come sit down, and I will explain everything."

As Keith joined his wife on the couch, Alicia noted that they did not hold hands or touch.  In fact, Liv moved slightly away from him and closer to Steve.  Alicia didn't say anything about the behavior, but couldn't avoid raising an eyebrow at her aunt and wondered whether anyone else had commented.

"The reason Emily crashed really had very little to do with her gunshot wounds," Alicia explained.

"What?  What's wrong then?" Keith demanded.  "Why'd she crash again if not because of that?"

"Well," Alicia said patiently, "apparently at some point in the past few days, maybe a week, or even a little more, Emily's right kidney was bruised by a severe blow to the back.  She should have been on complete bed rest and monitored her fluid intake and output, but for whatever reason, she ignored the pain she must have been suffering and kept on going."

"Wouldn't there have been blood in her urine?" Steve asked.  "I know they put in a catheter after any major surgical procedure, at least until they are certain you can get yourself to the bathroom."

"Yes, sir, ordinarily you would see blood in the urine with an injury like this, but in Emily's case, the ureter was also damaged, or at least the surrounding tissue was, and I think it was swollen shut."  Alicia continued to explain, "I don't think she had any urine at all emptying from her right kidney, so there was no bloody urine for her to see."

"So she didn't know she was hurt, did she?" Steve asked.  

"Oh, she knew, Dad," Steven interjected, "but knowing her, she just wrote it off as a sore back.  She's too tough and stubborn for her own good."

"I would have to agree with Steven on both counts," Alicia said.  "Because she kept active, blood kept leaking from the damaged vessels.  The renal capsule swelled to accommodate it and the urine it couldn't expel.  Then, during and after surgery, she spent the next six or so hours completely still and flat on her back, and the leaking capillaries were finally able to clot and stop the bleeding."

Olivia looked horrified, because she knew what had happened next.  "As her blood pressure came up after the surgery, the damaged blood vessels were like a system of old pipes when a major leak is fixed.  All of a sudden, a lot of other pipes spring leaks because they can't handle the restored pressure."

"Exactly," Alicia confirmed.  "The kidney filled with blood, a damaged spot on the renal capsule ruptured, and her abdominal cavity started filling with blood and urine."

"So," Olivia said, sounding defeated for the first time, "what's her prognosis now?"

Smiling, Alicia said, "Surprisingly, no worse than it was five hours ago.  Our three biggest worries are still peritonitis, blood clots, and brain damage.  We're still giving her the same fluids and antibiotics, and all we can do is wait."

Looking at the four worried people in front of her, she said, "Steven, Chief, I need to talk to Liv and Keith about another matter.  Why don't the two of you go on in and see Emily?  You can have five minutes, and that's it."

Obviously puzzled, the two Sloan men looked at each other and then at Alicia, and knowing better than to argue, they thanked her, said their goodbyes, and left.

"Now," Alicia said, turning to her old friends, "I don't know what's up with you two, but you have to straighten it out before I let you in to see Em.  She'll sense that something is wrong between you, and that will upset her.  Her condition is fragile enough that she might not be able to survive that."

Keith and Liv looked at each other sullenly as Alicia stood up and said, "I'll close the door on my way out and give you two some privacy."

"My God, Dad," Maribeth said as she held the paper in trembling hands, "this will kill him."  She had stopped in the path lab to see if anyone was still about, and had been surprised to find her father-in-law still waiting for her to come back and read the paper.  What she read had broken her heart.

"I know he will be hurt, sweetie, but with all of us there to be strong for him and to support him, he'll get through this."

"But, Dad, they question everything he's done."

"I know that, Maribeth, but that doesn't matter.  Do you question any of it?"

Wide eyed and sincere, she shook her head, "No, Dad.  He's my husband and I love him.  I know what kind of man he is, and I know he only ever wanted to do the right thing.  The fact that everything went wrong and that everything he did was misconstrued doesn't change that.  He's . . . he's my husband."

Mark gave a satisfied smile, knowing his daughter-in-law's support was essential to getting Steve through this disaster.

Maribeth sighed and stretched as she got up from Amanda's desk.  She had read the _Times _article twice, and the thought of what it would do to Steve brought her to tears, and then, to have Amanda tell her he had suspected Emily was his daughter since they'd got back from Maui, well, that that was something she could deal with later.  First, she had to make sure Steve was all right.

Smiling weakly, she said, "I guess I ought to go find my husband."

Nodding, Amanda said, "Last I heard, he was in the waiting room with Liv, Keith, and Steven.  Maybe by now he has gone in to see Emily."

"Thanks, Amanda," she gave her friend a hug, "for taking care of him.  Dad?"  She turned to Mark.  "How are you getting home?"

"Steven's going to come down here to get me.  I figure I will fill him in on the way home."

"Ok, that sounds good to me.  Dad?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"He's likely to worry about how I am taking all this, too.  Tell him I'm all right, that I have read the paper, and that I said he shouldn't worry about me.  I just want to be sure his dad is ok."

"All right, Maribeth, I'll do that."

She moved over and gave Mark a hug and said, "Thanks, Dad, for always looking out for all of us.  I will help you look after Steve."

"I know, Sweetie.  Now you go on and find your husband.  He's gonna need you."

"Right, Dad.  See you later."

As she walked out, Mark had the terrible feeling that the next few days were only going to get worse for his friends and family, and especially his son, and he wondered if Maribeth's unquestioning faith and belief in him would be enough to get Steve through what was to come.  

"She looks so frail, Dad."

"I know, Son," Steve reassured the young man as they both stared through the window before going into Emily's room, "but if she's as much like her mother on the inside as she is on the outside, she's a fighter.  She'll get through this."

Steven smiled slightly and said, "I've been talking to Liv all night, and I get the impression that they are just alike."

Steve snorted with laughter, "Yeah, in all the wrong ways.  I'll bet they drive each other nuts."

Steven had to chuckle then, "Why do you think she moved to California?"

The two men shared a hearty, genuine laugh, then Steve suddenly became very serious.  "I mean it, though, Son.  I can't say how I know, but I really do believe she'll make it."  He put his arm around the younger man's shoulders and gave a squeeze, though it was a stretch for him because Steven was so much taller.

For a moment, Steven leaned into his father's embrace.  "Thanks, Dad."

"Now, she doesn't know me all that well, so I am not going in," Steve said.  "I think I am going to go back to the precinct for a while.  I need to contact Cheryl and Dion and a friend of mine in Internal Affairs, and then I'll go home and sleep for a week."

"Dad, are you ok?"

"I'm fine, Son, why?"

"I think you just admitted that you need some rest."

Steve smiled and said, "Shhhhh, don't tell your mother."  He didn't want to admit how much this whole fiasco had affected him yet.  Emily was quite enough for everyone to worry about, but in a few days, when they knew if she was going to recover, he would have to sit down with Liv, Keith, Maribeth, and Steven and clear the air.

Steven chuckled and waved his dad off before he again grew serious and headed in to see his ailing girlfriend.

"Em, I don't know what to say," Steven began when he finally stood beside his lover.  "I don't want to lose you, sweetheart.  I need you too much."  Gently he reached out and stroked her brow.  There was no response, and even though he hadn't expected one, he was still disappointed.

"My dad promises me you're tougher than you look.  He says if you're anything like your mom, you'll get through this.  I don't know how tough she is, Em, but I know she needs you back, too."

He smiled softly, and said, "We were talking earlier about when you and she used to go picking berries together.  I know how much you treasure those memories, and I told her how happy those times were for you."

"She's quite a lady, your mother," Steven said with admiration.  "Now, I know why you're so wonderful, and I think my dad's right."  With forced relief, trying to make himself, and, if she could hear him, Emily, believe it, he said, "You're going to be ok, Em.  You rest now, and in a couple days, when you're feeling stronger, come back to us and show Alex, Maribeth, and CJ how strong you are.  Surprise them, sweetie.  Surprise us all."

He heard someone clear her throat behind him then, and turned to see his mother standing in the door.  "Hey, Son," Maribeth said softly as she pretended not to see the tears her son scrubbed away from his eyes.  "You doing ok?"

"Yeah, Mom, I'm fine.  Just trying to convince Em to work one more amazing feat and come around for us so we will know she's all right."  He glanced at his watch and saw his allotted time had lapsed.  Leaning over, he kissed Emily on the forehead and whispered, "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart, and I will expect you to be the same difficult patient who insisted I stitch up her hand at home before this whole mess started, ok?"

Of course, he got no response, and was again disappointed, even though he hadn't been expecting anything from her.

As Steven stepped out in the hall, Maribeth asked him, "Where's your dad?"

"You just missed him, Mom.  He went back to the precinct.  He has some business to take care of, and then he's going to take some time off, I think."  Steven grinned then, "If you are quick and clever, you might even talk him into a vacation before he knows what's happening."

Maribeth smiled.  "That might be nice."  Then she became serious again.  "Now, I want you to listen to me, Son.  Your granddad is still waiting for you in the path lab.  He's got some news for you and it isn't good."

Steven looked very worried, but Maribeth just kept talking.  "I asked him to also tell you that I am ok.  I really am, but Gramps and I are gonna need your help."

"Mom?  What is it?"

"Just go see your granddad, Son, he'll explain everything.  I'm on call until noon, but I'll be home as soon as I can.  For now, just do what Gramps tells you, ok?"

"O-Ok, Mom.  You're sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine, Son.  Like I said, I just need your help with something.  Your granddad will tell you all about it."

With Steve still out of reach, except for by phone, and Maribeth really didn't want to discuss things with him over the phone, she decided to find Liv and Keith.  At least they could refute one part of the story as a bald-faced lie, she hoped.

"Well?"  Olivia said as the door closed behind Alicia.  It was heavy oak, with a thick glass window.  The lounge used to be an office, she thought, but the door was thick enough that though people might see them arguing, they would have to listen intently to overhear what was said.

"Well what?" Keith asked, annoyed.

"Don't you have anything to say?"

"About what?"

"Keith," Liv said, softening her tone, "I can tell there's something wrong.  Won't you please talk to me?"

"Talk to you," he said, "as in tell you what's bothering me."

"Yes."

"Ok.  Why have you been tinkering with my prosthetics ever since we got married?"

Liv's face was a picture of confusion.  She tried three times to respond, but kept getting stuck on words like, 'what,' 'why,' and 'because.'  Before she could get anything out, Keith interrupted.

"You saved Sloan's legs when he was shot.  You couldn't do that for me."

"Keith, I . . . the technology . . . the medicine . . . "

"I know," he said acidly.  "It didn't exist for me.  Different time, different place.  I never blamed you for that, O, not really; but I always thought you blamed yourself.  Lately, though, I've gotten the idea that you just wanted a whole man."  

"Keith, no . . . "

Not interested in what his wife had to say, Keith continued as if she hadn't spoken.  He punched one of his prosthetic limbs, and, grimacing, he said, "It sounds like real flesh, hurts like it, too.  It looks and feels real now."  Smiling bitterly he added, "You even made me ticklish again.  Why?"

This time, when he paused, she was able to answer.  "I thought you wanted me to!  I thought you wanted to be able to play basketball with Emily.  I thought you wanted to . . . to . . ."

"To _what_?" Keith hissed, fury building.  "Be _normal_?  Be_ whole_?  Be good enough for _you_?"

Tears sprang to Liv's eyes and slipped down her face.  "All you ever had to do was ask me to stop.  I didn't know you didn't want it."  

Liv had no idea what was going on, but she knew her husband, and she knew he was still working his way up to the real issue.  She also knew he would have more hurtful things to say to her before he got there, and she had already forgiven him for it.  It didn't lessen the sting any, but it kept her from getting angry and shutting him out now that he had finally opened up to her.

"You didn't care," Keith accused his wife.  "You were just trying to assuage your guilt."

"I was trying to improve your quality of life!"

"You were using me as a guinea pig!"

"You should have told me to stop, Keith.  You should have told me!"

"You should have known!  You should have known I didn't want it!  You should have known what could happen, what could go wrong . . ."  

The tears had started for Keith now, too, and Liv knew he was finally getting to the heart of the matter.  

"You should have known," he wept.  "I _saw_ the gun, O, _before_ Emmy did.  I saw it and I _tried_ to stop Leigh Ann.  I _tried_ to save our daughter, and . . . _I couldn't move_.  My legs wouldn't _work_.  We're gonna lose her, O, and it's all my fault." 

"Keith!  Oh, Keith, no, sweetie.  You've got it all wrong.  You had nothing to do with what happened today."  Slowly, warily, Liv moved closer to her distraught husband.  She wasn't sure if her words were getting through, but the only thing she could do was talk to him.

"Keith, Leigh Ann went to great pains to smuggle that gun into the courtroom.  She was intent on hurting someone.  She fired that gun because she was malevolent, evil, I don't know what.  Emily got in her line of fire . . . "

"Because we made the mistake of convincing her Sloan was some kind of damned blasted hero!"

"NO!  She did it because that's the kind of person she is," Liv insisted.  "As long as people are in trouble, she will help them, regardless of the risk and hardship to herself.  Like it or not, we _made_ her that way.  _Both_ of us _made_ her that way, and if there's any blame to be had, we must share it because we taught her how to be and what to do, and despite all the trouble she ever got into, when it counted, she came right back to what _we _taught her when she was small."

Smiling through her tears, Liv continued, "This is all so hard, Keith, and so frightening, but we should be proud of her.  She's a really good girl."

Sulking, Keith nodded slightly, and Liv felt a stir of hope that she was getting through to him, but that hope died aborning as her husband spoke again, and for both of them the tears came faster.

"I still could have stopped that witch if my legs had worked," he spat.  "If I'd had the old fashioned ones, I could have stopped her, but I couldn't, because mine were playing hell with my reflexes, because _you_ weren't satisfied with me the way I was, because you couldn't look at me and love me for what I was.  You could never love me like you do _him_."

A hand flew to her mouth.  "Oh, God!"  For several moments, she stood in shock, gasping for air, fighting the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her.  Finally, she managed, just barely, to bring herself under control enough to answer his accusations.

 "Keith, it's true . . . I loved Steve.  I always will, because . . . he saved me . . . from a hell . . . of my own making.  But Keith," she reached out, toward him, but not yet daring to touch him, "I made . . . my life with you, my world . . . with you.  I had my _daughter_ with you.  I've been through . . . Oh, God!  I've been through _everything_, with _you_, and I will get through this, but . . . _only_ with you."  

Finally, she touched him.  "I need _you_, Keith.  Please, tell me what I can do to fix this."

"NO!" he shouted, and shoved Liv away, causing her to stumble into a chair and fall.  Without a backward glance, he ran limping out of the room as fast as his aching, burning prosthetic legs could carry him.

Maribeth stood speechless as Keith stormed out of the waiting room and headed down the hallway.  She couldn't believe the conversation she had just overheard.  _Ok, you were eavesdropping.  You couldn't have overheard all of that by accident._  True, she could understand guilt and jealousy, but she had thought Keith was much more secure than he seemed now.

"Keith," Olivia called as she came running out, but, from the other end of the corridor, he waved her off and headed down the exit stairs.  

She started to run after him, but Maribeth grabbed her arm.  "Leave him be, Liv.  He's too upset to talk to you right now."

Liv collapsed back against the wall and said, "He just wouldn't listen.  If he would just listen for a minute, he'd understand."

"Liv," Maribeth said gently, "I was out here.  I heard you two talking, and I saw him push you.  He _was _listening.  He was just too angry to _hear_ you.  Give him some time to cool off."

Slowly bringing her sobbing under control, Liv nodded and said, "I, I'm going to go sit with Emmy.  If you see him, will you tell him where I am?"

"Sure."  Maribeth watched her head off down the hallway, and decided she needed to talk to Keith.  Her questions could wait a little longer.

She found him sitting on the steps just the other side of the exit door.

"Wanna talk?" she asked, settling beside him on the stairs.

"Nope."

"It might help."

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

Ordinarily, given that she was Steve's wife, Keith wouldn't have been so blunt, but he was in a mood and a half, so he just spit it out.

"I found them in bed together."

He had expected her to rage and protest, to have a fit, to cry.  In fact, he would have expected anything apart from the reaction he got.

Maribeth laughed out loud and said, "So did I."  

As he sat there gaping, she explained.  "I threw a fit, just like you.  Threw a few other things, too, as I recall," she said with a smile.  "Then I realized it was completely innocent.  They are friends who care deeply for one another, Keith, and they will always be there for each other, and they are lucky to have that.  But they are _just_ friends.  You are her life, and I am his, and nothing will ever change that.  When she withdrew inside herself during the sting operation, she only responded to you.  Steve was there for her, but only you could bring her back."

"Hmph!"  Keith was far from convinced.

They sat in silence for a while, then Keith spoke again.

"Do you know what I remember from our wedding?"

"What?"

"He danced with her, and I just sat in my wheelchair.  Everyone cleared the floor to watch them.  They moved beautifully together, and I just sat there."

Maribeth watched him silently for a moment.  He was feeling sorry for himself.  Maybe she could snap him out of it.

"Not only are you a whole man, Keith…"

He looked at her in surprise.  He hadn't realized she had heard that much of his argument with Liv.  

"…you are also a complete jackass."

"Look…" he tried to protest.

Maribeth raised her voice to override his protest.

"Ok, so he danced with her at the wedding.  Big, stinking, hairy deal!  You took her on the honeymoon.  You have had her for the past thirty years.  Isn't that proof enough that she loves _you_?"

Keith had gone silent.  After a long minute he said, "I suppose it should be."

"And it wasn't your fault you couldn't stop Leigh Ann.  Sometimes people just freeze in a crisis.  It could just as easily have happened with conventional prosthetics or flesh and blood.  It's called being human."

"I know.  I just feel so ashamed.  I wish I could have done something to help."

"I know, Keith.  You couldn't then, but now, you can.  Your wife is sitting with your daughter.  Go be with them."

Keith looked at Maribeth warily.  Then he looked down at his hands, the fingers laced loosely together, resting in his lap.  Then he looked past his hands to his feet and down the stairs.  Finally, he nodded, stood, and climbed the stairs.

"Jeeze, Gramps," Steven said as he got a beer out of the fridge.  Four in the morning was early to be drinking, but as he hadn't been to bed yet, Jesse had already found someone to cover his shift, and he'd had to nudge the car through a mob of reporters to get to the house, he figured he might as well just say it was still after five p.m.  "What are we going to do?  This is . . . it's . . . "

"Rot," Mark supplied.  "Garbage.  Slander."

"Yeah," Steven agreed, "but it's true."

"It's only half the truth, Son, and half a truth is . . . "

"I know, I know . . . is all lie.  Mom's told me that often enough, believe me.  But all he can do is explain.  He can't deny any of it, except for Emily being his daughter."  A look of horror crossed the young man's face.  "He can deny that, can't he, Gramps?"

Mark hesitated a bit before he answered, and Steven knew he wouldn't like what he heard.  Still, his grandfather's words hit him like a punch in the chest.  "We don't know, son.  You Aunt Amanda says he somehow got a blood sample and had her run a paternity test, but the sample was contaminated, and the results were inconclusive."

"Oh, God, Gramps.  If she's my sister . . . "

"Steven, don't panic about this yet."

"Why didn't he _say_ anything?"

"You know your dad, Steven.  He likes to work his problems out on his own before he shares them with anyone."

"But this wasn't just _his _problem.  It's _my_ problem too.  I was sleeping with her, Gramps.  We were talking about marriage and _babies._  If she's my sister . . . "

"First of all, Steven, we don't know yet that she is, and secondly, even if she is, neither of you did anything wrong, because you didn't know."

"Try telling _them_ that," he said, jerking his head in the direction of the reporters at the front of the house.

"It's none of their business anyway," Mark insisted obdurately.

"Oh, everything is their business now, Gramps.  Nothing's too private for print.  I don't think she is, my sister, I mean.  I would have known, wouldn't I?  I'd have felt something was wrong.  Don't you think Gramps?"

"Steven, stop it!" Mark snapped, and the young man immediately hushed at the sharp tone.  

"I want you to lay down on the couch and rest, ok?" the old man requested in a soothing singsong tone.

Nodding, in shock, Steven did exactly as he was told.  No matter what kind of grief he gave his parents, even as a wild child in his teens, the boy had always obeyed his grandfather without question.

Mark laid an afghan over his long, lithe form and took the half finished beer gently from his hand.  "Just rest now, Son.  It's been a long day for all of us.  We'll just relax here, and when your dad comes home, he can tell you himself why he never talked to you about Emily, ok?"

By the time Mark had settled himself in the recliner, the exhausted young man had drifted off to sleep, and, without meaning to, Mark did the same himself a few minutes later.

"Maribeth!" a voice whispered sharply.

She rolled over and grunted as a hand shook her gently.

"Maribeth, wake up!" 

"Go 'way!"

"MARIBETH!"

"WHAT?"

Peter Green smiled down at her.  "Alex called me.  About half and hour ago, he caught the news on the TV in the doctor's lounge.  You should be home with Steve."

"But I'm on call until noon."

"You're also too tired and too worried about too many things to be thinking straight.  Your husband's going to need you.  I have arranged for one of the nurses to give you a ride, and I am here to cover for you.  Go home."

Maribeth smiled blearily and patted Peter's cheek.  "You're a good boy, Peter," she said.

"Thanks," he said.  "You owe me."

"I know.  I won't forget it."

Peter helped her into her coat and guided her to the door where a nurse whose name she did not even know smiled kindly and helped her into the car.

As they pulled away into the night, Maribeth finally began to wake up.  "I-I'm sorry.  I don't know your name, and why are you helping us?  Have you read the paper?"  Maribeth couldn't believe any stranger who had read that terrible article would ever dream of helping her or her family right now.

"My name is Blair Hutchins," the young woman said.  She was probably close to forty, actually, but as old as Maribeth was feeling right now, that was young.  " I used to be Blair Worral before I got married.  When I was a little girl, my brother Ben accidentally shot and killed our dad when he was beating up our mom.  Your father-in-law took me in when our mother disappeared and Benny ran from the police because he was afraid to go to jail.  He was real nice to me.  So were his friends Dr. Bentley and Dr. Travis, and your husband talked to the judge on Benny's behalf so he didn't have to go to jail."

"I see," Maribeth said, though she wasn't sure she did.

"What goes around comes around Dr. Sloan" Blair said with a soft smile.  "Your husband and his father and friends have helped a lot of people over the years.  They'll help him now, and they'll make sure the whole truth comes out.  You rest now.  I'll wake you when we get to your house.  Dr. Green gave me directions, but I remember the way."

As he crept along the beach to his house in the darkest hour of the night, Steve reviewed all the things he had done since the shooting.  He'd left messages for Dion and Cheryl about Moretti's guard detail and Donovan and young Cioffi's suspension.  Then he had contacted an old friend of his in Internal Affairs and left a message requesting that he put a good scare into the young cops but leave them some hope of redeeming themselves.  He'd called Ron with an update on Emily's condition, and had to laugh at Ron when he grumbled about Moretti's grocery run.  Even in a coma after crashing twice and losing more than half her blood supply, Em was still causing trouble.  He'd considered listening to the tape Donovan had concealed, but decided against it.  He remembered exactly what he had said that day in the path lab, and didn't need to hear his own voice repeating it.  Finally, he'd headed home, and upon seeing the mass of reporters outside the beach house _Probably waiting for Keith and Liv_ he'd driven past without even slowing down to park at Alex and Marilyn's place.  

Though he hated it when Marilyn called him the dog's 'Uncle Steve,' tonight he was glad they knew him.  The big Newfies had greeted him with excited whimpers and licks as he slipped through their yard, and after some petting, wrestling, and tug-of-war, they were content to let him head out the gate and down the beach to his own home without a single protest.  As he walked down the beach, he called the precinct and requested the presence of a black and white so that whoever else came home wouldn't have to fight their way through the mass of press camped out just beyond the end of the driveway.

Steve chuckled as he entered the house from the deck and heard the barnyard sounds of his father and son sleeping, Steven's the deep bass grunt of a rooting pig, and Mark's the high whistling whinny of a nervous horse.  He laughed even harder to think that Maribeth said he himself quacked like a duck.  Of course, she refused to admit that she roared like a chainsaw with a valve gone bad.  Gently, so as not to wake the elderly man, Steve draped a blanket over his father.  Next, he turned to his son, and tucked the old afghan further up around his shoulders.  Then, as he was heading to his own bedroom, he caught sight of the evening paper.  

Tired as he was, he was still restless, and thought he would read himself to sleep, so, taking it with him, he headed off to bed.  Tossing the paper on the bed, he slipped off to the bathroom to change into his pajamas and slip on his robe.  Then, deciding he was hungry, he went out to the kitchen to get himself a snack.  Finding a big sticky bun covered with pecans and sugar icing in the breadbox, he decided that and a glass of warm milk would be the perfect very late bedtime snack, and he quickly zapped them both in the microwave.

Back in the bedroom, he put his goodies on the nightstand and slipped under the covers.  He knew Maribeth would lecture him about not brushing his teeth, but after seventy-five years, they were all still his, which was more than she could say, so he figured he could risk it once in a while.  He took a big bite of the sticky bun and a gulp of milk, and then laid the paper out on his lap to read.  He chewed thoroughly and swallowed hard, then, with trembling hands, set his food and drink aside and held the paper up to the light to be sure he could read every word.

_Sloan Dirty:  Covered for Love Child When Federal Witness Kidnapped_

_By Lenny Murdoch_

_Steve Sloan, Deputy Chief of Police in Charge of the Valley Division of the LAPD has proven to be nothing more than yet another corrupt cop within ranks of those who have in recent years so lightly taken the oath to serve and protect.  The Deputy Chief, whose division survived the scandals and hearings of 2030 unscathed, personally hired his illegitimate daughter, Lieutenant Emily Stephens, at the unwitting recommendation of Captain Alberto Cioffi and then, with the help of various underlings, proceeded to aid and abet her in a series of state and federal crimes over the past three and a half weeks.  _

_At the time she was hired, Stephens seemed to have an impeccable record, but since then, the _Times_ has uncovered some disturbing facts about the Lieutenant's past.  Before she became a police officer, Stephens was charged with embezzlement, money laundering, securities fraud, and treason.  She is also known to have dabbled in biological warfare and developing weapons of mass destruction, and she admitted to leaving her job back East when a bitter divorce made it impossible for her to maintain a safe and civil working relationship with her ex-husband, Ian Baer, a sergeant in the Clearfield County, Pennsylvania, Sheriff's Department._

_Less than a month after beginning her new job with the LAPD, Stephens kidnapped Giancarlo Moretti, the star witness in the federal tax evasion-money laundering-racketeering trial of Mob boss Vincent Gaudino, head of the Ganza Crime Family.  When one of her own cohorts in the kidnapping, a Lieutenant Martin Rossi, turned on her and shot her, she abducted Community General doctor and long-time friend of the Deputy Chief, Jesse Travis, to treat the injuries she sustained._

_Less than twenty four hours later, Stephens managed to escape police yet again, taking Moretti with her, but leaving Dr. Travis behind.  That evening, Sloan picked up Lieutenant Stephens' mother and her husband, Dr. Olivia and Mr. Keith Stephens at the airport and took them to his home in Malibu.  Dr. Stephens brought with her $100,000 cash, which Deputy Chief Sloan then personally delivered to the lieutenant in Peck Park at two thirty the following morning, where again, she was allowed to walk away._

_A secret task force to locate Lieutenant Stephens and her hostage was set up in the lieutenant's own private home in Brentwood with Dr. and Mr. Stephens playing hosts to the officers, preparing meals and tea.  In his search for the lieutenant and her captive, Deputy Chief Sloan relied heavily on unproven technology developed by his goddaughter, Hannah Wagner, daughter of Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner, Chief Medical Examiner for the City of Los Angeles and sister of Captain Dion Bentley-Wagner, two more Sloan friends and members of the task force.  In the 25 days during which Lieutenant Stephens held Mr. Moretti prisoner, members of the LAPD task force spoke face-to-face with her no less than five times, and each time she mysteriously escaped. _

_Over thirty years ago, then-Lieutenants Steve Sloan and (now Chief of Police) Tanis Archer worked hard ostensibly to bring down the Ganza Crime Family here in LA, only to actually help the late Chief Masters install the late "Boss" Ross Cainin as head of the organization.  Then, four years ago, just before the mob scandals of 2030, Deputy Chief Sloan hired Leigh Ann Bergman, a.k.a. Liana Cainin, Ross Cainin's daughter, as his personal assistant.  Naturally, Ms. Cainin was also brought on to the task force.  Finally, Mr. Moretti, who came through his ordeal despite the best efforts of Chief Sloan and his secret offspring, Lieutenant Stephens, is poised to bring down the entire Ganza Organization, but as he is still in 'protective' custody supervised by FBI Agent Ron Wagner, yet another Sloan crony included in the task force, his ultimate survival is still in question._

_It is uncertain when the Sloan Family became a major player in organized crime in the City of Los Angeles and surrounding communities, but with their close ties to the police department, the FBI, and the ME's office, they almost certainly had the means to hide their illegal activities for many years.  Dr. Mark Sloan, the Deputy Chief's father is also a long time friend of the late Mr. Roger Gorini, the local newscaster and nephew of Vincent Gaudino, and almost certainly was able to use his influence to keep the family's illegal activities out of the news for some time.  _

_Finally, in a cassette recording provided to the _Times_ by an unnamed source within the police department, there is evidence that Deputy Chief Sloan knew his illegitimate daughter was having an affair with his son, Dr. Steven Mark Sloan of Community General Hospital, and did nothing to stop it.  _

_The _Times_ urges the citizens of LA to demand a thorough, independent investigation of the Sloan Family's dealings with the police department, the FBI, the medical community, and the restaurant business (Deputy Chief Sloan and his friend Dr. Jesse Travis are co-owners of a restaurant called BBQ Bob's) in and around LA.  Clearly, the Deputy Chief is a man who, after years of possibly underserved adulation and unmerited promotions has become so powerful that he feels himself to be above both the law and conventional morality._

It was after four, but not yet five, the darkest hour of the night, when time was just an imaginary thing and the darkness seemed to stretch off to forever in both directions, that Keith finally came to his wife.  He entered the room quietly, and in the several moments before she became aware of his presence, he had time to observe her and Emily.  They both looked unnaturally pale, almost faded, in the washed out light of a single, unshaded fluorescent tube.  Green, red, and blue lights from the various monitors mottled them with a weird glow.

Liv sat in the chair beside the bed, stretching to caress her daughter's hair with her right hand, holding Emily's hand gently with her left.  She was crooning to her, an old song, one of her favorites, _Bring on the rain . . . _and Keith could see that she had been, still was, weeping.

Finally, she looked up, and for an instant, her breath caught in her throat.  Before she could speak, Keith said, "I'm sorry."

"I know," Liv said standing up, and she briefly let go of her daughter's hand to open her arms to her husband.

After a small moment of uncertainty, Keith moved forward and swept his wife into his arms.  They cried together for a little while, and then Keith took the chair his wife had been sitting in and settled her on his lap.  Liv reached out again and took Emily's hand in both of hers, and then Keith wrapped his hands around theirs.

Maribeth sighed regretfully when she walked into the bedroom.  There was a large, Steve-shaped lump under the covers, and she knew without a doubt he had come home after Mark and Steven had fallen asleep, probably tucked them in for the night, found the _Times,_ and read that awful article.  There had been no one around to remind him that they had twisted the truth by leaving out important bits, like Emily's disguises, the four 'laser sights' she had trained on him when he delivered the money, and the fact that one of the times she 'escaped' he had collapsed at her feet with bleeding ulcers and an esophageal tear.  He'd probably read the article three or four times, and with each reading, let it tear him apart.  _How could he not?  They took everything he is and everything he's done and made it all sound dirty._

She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth and dressed for bed, then she came out, pulled the covers back and laid down beside her husband.  He was trembling with the effort of holding on to the tears he thought he could not bear to let go.  The whole bed was shaking.  Hoping to calm him, Maribeth put a hand on his shoulder.  He tried to scramble away from her, out of the bed, probably to punish himself by sleeping alone with his misery in the guest bedroom, but she slid over close to him, wrapped her arms around his chest, and, spooning up close to him, she said, "Oh, no you don't."

For a moment, he tried to loosen her grip and pry her arms from around him, but she whispered harshly in his ear, "Stop it, Steve."

He ceased his struggling, but the trembling did not stop, and she was concerned that he was going into shock.

"Did you read the paper?" he asked.

"Yes."

After a long moment of silence, Steve begged her, "Say something."

She didn't speak right away.  She wasn't sure what he wanted her to say.  Was she supposed to condemn the press or reassure him that the whole truth would come out in time?  Was she supposed to act disbelieving or just say he was making too much of it and that people didn't even view that particular brand of gossip as scandalous any more?  Was she supposed to reassure him that she was ok with the possibility of him having a child by another woman, or just ignore that bit of information altogether?

As she pondered, she placed a kiss on the back of his head followed by another on his neck.  Propping herself up on her elbow, she kissed him on the temple, the ear, the cheek, and then, very gently, she turned his face toward her and kissed him on the lips, and in that moment just before the kiss, when he looked into his eyes, she knew what he needed to hear.

"I love you, Steven Michael Sloan," she whispered, "and nothing that could happen in this world will ever change that."

For a moment, when their eyes met, Steve stopped breathing entirely, then he turned towards her and hid his face against her chest.  For a long time, he continued trembling, holding the tears at bay.  Finally, when she said simply, "Let it go, Steve," they came almost instantly.  He cried not with the loud, plaintive sobs of a man railing against the world that had treated him cruelly, but with the painful, hard-won tears of a broken-hearted lover, hurting too badly to even protest that he had been done wrong.  

Finally, in the darkest hour of the night, wrapped in the loving arms of his wife, Steve Sloan let out all his fears and worries of the past month, and quietly cried himself to sleep.


	26. Dawn

**(Chapter 26.  CGH, beach house, safe house.  March 29, 2033.)**

The first rays of morning were just peeking into Emily's room when Olivia realized just how uncomfortable she was.  When Keith had first come to her and apologized, she had been so glad to see him, so happy they were again united in facing what the world sent their way, that she hadn't questioned the wisdom of Keith settling her in his lap as he sat at Emily's bedside.  Now, hours, maybe ages, later, she really didn't know because time had ceased to have any meaning for her the moment she heard the first gunshot and saw Emily's shoulder stained bright red, she was beginning to realize that they should have brought in an extra chair.

Olivia's shoulders and arms were aching from stretching to reach Emily's hand, her rear was going numb from her lumpy seat on her husband's lap, and she could only imagine how Keith's legs would feel when he finally woke and tried to stir.  He had fallen asleep some time ago, and she had been content to let him rest, but now, with the light of day, she felt the need to be up and moving.

Taking a moment to consider her situation, Olivia realized that she could stand up, still in the circle of Keith's arms, and relieve the pressure on her bottom.  That, at least would be a good start.  Then, if she were careful, she could slip her hands free from Keith's, leave him holding Emily's hand, and duck under his arms without disturbing either of them.  A quick trip down to the hospital cafeteria, and she could bring Keith back some breakfast and a cup of what passed for coffee around here.  They would both need something to fortify them for the long day of waiting that was ahead of them.

Slowly, Olivia eased forward on Keith's lap, and when her feet could touch the floor, she stood up.  Pins and needles ran up and down the backs of her thighs, and she knew she would have to stay in one place a while longer.  If she tried to walk off now, her legs would probably give way beneath her, they were so numb.  As she stood there, waiting for feeling to return, she watched her daughter.  

Pain showed in Emily's face, even in her drug-induced slumber.  She wore no hospital gown under her sheets, but her chest, abdomen, and shoulder were so heavily bandaged, and so many other things were going into her, coming out of her, and stuck on her that she didn't need anything more to cover her.  The ventilator tube, which went in Emmy's mouth and down her throat, jerked slightly with every puff of air it forced into her lungs, and an NG tube snaked its way up her nose and down her throat to suction off pinkish tinged gastric juices so that her injured stomach could heal.  Wires led off to various machines to monitor her essential bodily functions, tubes led out of her wounds to drain off fluids, and vinyl, thigh-high boots periodically inflated and deflated around her legs to help reduce the risk of blood clots.  More tubes led into Emily's body by way of an IV pump and carried nutrients, blood, and medication into her through a catheter in her good shoulder.  Another kind of catheter tube hung down over the side of the bed and carried urine, bloody now that the swelling around the ureter that led to the damaged kidney was going down, to a bag that hung from a rail under the bed.

As a doctor, Liv had seen all of this paraphernalia in use on many occasions and understood how each piece of equipment was essential to her daughter's survival and recovery.  As a mother, she found it all quite frightening, and she needed to leave.  Struggling to hold herself together so that she disturbed neither her husband nor her daughter, she began to gently disengage her hands.  Suddenly, she felt a strong grip squeeze her fingers, not from the large, warm hands of her husband, which were wrapped around hers, but from the cool, slender fingers of her daughter's hand, which she had held through the darkest hours of the night.

"Emmy?"

"Zelotes, is there any sign of Deputy Chief Sloan?" the anchorman said, looking toward a monitor off to his right.

"No, Dan," the woman with the odd name replied, live, via satellite, "His father and son came home around three in the morning, and his wife a little after four, but the Chief seems to have gone underground."

Moretti stopped to stand behind the couch and watch the report.  He would have had a seat, but Agent Wagner was still sleeping soundly, and the living room of the tiny safe house had only room for the sofa, the TV, and an end table.  There was nowhere else to sit.  Last night, his two protectors had given him the bedroom, and Al had spent the night in a sleeping bag on the hall floor.

The words at the bottom of the TV screen said, _Zelotes Guzman.  Deputy Chief Sloan's house.  Malibu.  _In the background behind Zelotes, the beach house, and the sand and surf beyond it, were limned with a delicate pink hue cast by the rising sun.

"Do you think he's likely to run, Zelotes?  Should the police be watching the airports?"

"I don't think so, Dan.  Sloan is proud to a fault, and he has a temper.  He also has strong ties to the area, family, friends, and history.  He's going to fight this, despite the overwhelming evidence."

Moretti kept the TV volume low so that Agent Wagner could continue sleeping.  It had been late when they arrived at an FBI safe house in Barstow, and Moretti figured Wagner would need some rest if he were to drive safely back to LA that afternoon.

"Do you think there is any truth to the rumor that Lieutenant Stephens is his daughter?"

Moretti spluttered and spurted his morning coffee all over himself and the sleeping Fed.

"I don't know about that, Dan, but it is possible . . ."

"What in the hell . . . ?"  Wagner complained as he woke up.

"Shhhh!"  Moretti turned up the volume and they both watched, transfixed.

"Word around the neighborhood is that Sloan and the lieutenant's mother were almost married thirty years ago, at just about the time the lieutenant would have been conceived.  We know from old news documents that Dr. Stephens, then Regis, was his doctor when he was injured in the line of duty back in 2002.  And then, of course, there are the tapes."

"Oh, yes, but I thought it was just one tape," Dan said.

"Yes, Dan," Zelotes replied, "only one has surfaced so far, but the LAPD removed several hundred audio and video tapes from a private apartment attached to a warehouse owned by our late colleague, Roger Gorini."  Zelotes' voice dipped with false regret for the loss of her fallen comrade, "There's no telling what might be revealed when they are made available to the public."

Dan's glance cut off to the left to another monitor showing a young man standing outside the Valley Bureau's headquarters building.  "Either way, Jonas, it looks like father and would-be daughter are going to be spending a lot of time in jail."

"Oh, absolutely, Dan," Jonas agreed.  "If even half of these allegations are true, a lot of people will be going to jail, some of them at the very highest levels of the LAPD and the FBI.  Sloan himself has already suspended two rookies from the task force without pay, and Lieutenant Jonathan Miller from the Internal Affairs Division has begun an investigation into their activities.  It is unclear at this time whether they have actually broken any regulations."

"Meaning what, Jonas?"

Treading carefully, Jonas made certain to imply, rather than directly say something that would make good copy.  "Meaning, if they did nothing wrong, and they knew what was going on in the taskforce, they could be a threat to some very powerful people."

"And Jonas . . . Wait.  Hold on."  The newscaster back in the studio pressed his earpiece to his ear so he could hear better.  "Jonas, we'll come back to you in a few minutes.  Zelotes, if you could just hang on a while, we have word that Lieutenant Stephens is just coming round at Community General Hospital, and I am being told we have to cut to Robert now."

"Ok, Dan.  I will see you later.  This is Zelotes Guzma . . . "

Zelotes was cut off by a burst of static, and a moment later, a middle-aged man in front of the hospital replaced her.

". . . squeezed her mother's hand."

As the fingers of dawn pried their way into the Sloan household, three very gloomy individuals sat in the wan, gray light of the kitchen, commiserating over hot, fresh coffee.  Sleep, which had come late to all of them, had not been restful, nor had it lasted long, and now, though poorly recovered from the trials of the previous day, they knew they had yet another one ahead of them.

A roach coach had set up across the street, and was serving breakfast burritos and sausage and egg sandwiches to the media hounds who had camped out on the sidewalk at the end of the driveway all night.  Maribeth had called to complain and asked the department to send the vendor on his way, hoping to make the reporters disburse in search of sustenance, but she soon got a call back that the man's vending permit included her neighborhood and he just hadn't serviced the area in years because he never did a very good business.  Now, though, with a captive audience, trade was brisk, and he was determined to feed his customers.  When she suggested that the reporters be cited for loitering, the officer had gently reminded her that the sidewalk was a public place and as long as they didn't obstruct traffic, they were well within their rights to be there.

"You might try to get a restraining order, ma'am," the young officer had told them, "but your husband is a public figure, and from what I hear, he has a lot to answer for."

She had barely managed a terse, insincere, "Thank you, Officer DeLong," before slamming the door in the young man's face with such force that he staggered backwards and stumbled down the steps.

Maribeth took another gulp of coffee and squeezed her eyes shut as it scalded its way down her throat.  Meeting Steven's eyes as he came back to the table from checking on his father for the third time that hour, she asked, "How is he?"

"The same, Mom."  Steven said, pouring another cup of coffee.  "He's just sitting there, staring.  He didn't take any of the coffee I brought him, so I just left it on the nightstand beside him.  His blood pressure is a little higher than I'd like it, but given the stress he's been under, I'm not surprised.  How much sleep would you say he got?"

Maribeth shrugged.  "Maybe an hour.  Hour and a half tops.  Not much more than I did."

"I'd like to sedate him, Mom."

"No, not yet."

"But Mother!"

"Steven, no."  For a while, nobody said anything.  Steven knew better than to argue with his mother and Mark knew he did not need to intervene.  Finally, Maribeth got up and put her cup in the sink.  She pulled her robe tighter around her, and as she shuffled through the kitchen, she said, "I am going to have a shower.  Then I will call Alex at the hospital and see how Emily is doing.  Maybe, if she is still stable, Liv and Keith will consider coming out and helping us clear up this mess.  If not, then you may sedate him."

"Yes, Mom."

Leigh Ann sat in her cell and giggled maniacally.  Having worked for Sloan for four years, she knew the law and knew if she requested news from outside they had to provide her with a paper.  That idiot Murdoch had taken every word she had given him and typed it up into a devastating story of intrigue, duplicity, and scandal.  She had already more than gotten her revenge, and for Sloan, this was just the beginning.  She sat back, content, knowing it didn't matter what happened to her now, she had accomplished what she needed to.

"Get up," the guard said gruffly, "you have a visitor."

It was almost seven when Alex finally emerged grinning from Emily's hospital room and went straight over to Liv and Keith, who, absorbed in prayer, were standing just down the hall, holding hands, so close together their bowed heads were touching.  He waited a moment as they finished.

"Please, Lord," Liv said, "make her whole or take her home.  Do not leave her here to suffer.  Amen."

"Amen," Keith finished.

Alex cleared his throat quietly, and both worried parents looked at him with expectant dread, but when they saw his grin, they both began to smile.

"Keep up those prayers, you two, because they are really helping.  I have never seen anything like it."

"What?  Alex, how is she?" Now that she knew the news was good, Liv was even more desperate to hear it.

"Well, her blood pressure and heart rate have stabilized.  Her BP is still low, and her heart rate is still a little fast, but that is to be expected.  As far as I can tell, she is lucid and aware of her surroundings, and she knows more or less what happened and how she got here, but we'll be able to assess that better when she comes off the vent and can speak."

"Oh, thank God," Keith sighed.

"Absolutely," Alex agreed, "because medicine couldn't achieve this much this fast.  Now, all the same risks are still there.  A blood clot could be lethal, but, barring complications of that nature, now that she has come round, her prognosis is much better."

"Can we go back to her now?" Keith pleaded.

"Yes, for a little while.  She is still in a lot of pain, and she needs more rest, so in a few minutes, I am going to sedate her.  When I do, I want the two of you to go get a bite to eat and some rest, understand?"

"Ok," Liv agreed, "but we can see her now?"

"Yes," Alex said happily, and he stood aside and swept out his arm in a gallant gesture toward her room, "you can see her right now."

Too excited to thank him or even excuse themselves, Liv and Keith hurried down the hall back to their daughter's bedside.

"Looks like the Lord isn't ready for her yet," Liv said.

Laughing slightly, Keith said, "Will he ever be?  This is our Em, remember."

_Dr. Martin, you have a call on line one.  Dr. Alex Martin, you have a call on line one, please._

Alex, chuckling with pleasure at having been able to deliver the good news, went to the nurses' station to pick up the phone.

Moretti and Ron were still glued to the television.

". . . just got word, Dan," Robert said from the hospital.  "Lieutenant Stephens' has apparently made a miraculous recovery."

"What the hell?" Moretti looked at Agent Wagner.  "You saw her, right?  You know how bad she was hurt.  It'll be days, maybe weeks, before they can even say if she'll survive!"

Agent Wagner gave a sarcastic smile, "It's on the news, Moretti.  It must be true."

Holding his earpiece tight into his ear, Robert continued, "She is conscious and coherent and has made it clear to her doctors that she wants to be discharged, but for some reason, her physician, Dr. Alex Martin, has decided to keep her sedated."

"Now, why would they do that?" Dan asked from the studio.

Before Robert could answer, Jonas contributed a theory from Valley Bureau Headquarters.  "It could be like the rookies, Dan.  Someone, somewhere sees her as a threat."

"What an idiot!" Ron said.

"I don't think so, Dan," Robert disagreed.  "After all, the four most important words of the physicians oath are 'First do no harm.'  Dr. Martin has been a well known, highly respected doctor at Community General for over thirty years . . . "

"Finally, someone who makes sense," Moretti sighed with relief.

"Which makes it possible for him to effectively handle certain problems for his friends, and he and Deputy Chief Sloan have been friends for almost forty years now," Jonas countered.

"Ok, Jonas," Dan said in the jovial tone of a proud parent hoping to temper the actions of a precocious child.  "We do understand that all the elements for a conspiracy are there, but for now, that is just a theory, and until someone proves it's valid, if you say very much more about it, you could get us all in very serious legal trouble."

While Jonas pouted, Agent Wagner said, "Thank God they shut him up."

"Aintcha a little old ta be such a sucker, Wagner?"

"Huh?"

"They knew when they put him on this story that he would be talkin' conspiracy.  That's why they gave him the assignment," Moretti said disdainfully.  "His job is ta make everything that happens look like it's part of some big cover up.  He's there ta crucify anyone he can nail ta a tree."

"This is Dr. Martin.  How can I help you?"

Maribeth frowned in confusion.  The voice coming down the line was far too cheerful for someone at the end of a long shift.

"Alex, it's Maribeth.  How's Emily?"

Alex couldn't contain his grin, and his voice when he answered carried it down the telephone line.  "Emily is . . . amazing."

"Amazing?"

"She woke up about half an hour ago.  She's in a lot of pain, but she's stable, conscious, alert, and already seems anxious to get out of here.  She should never have come round at all, let alone this quickly.  It's unbelievable.  I thought I understood what you meant about praying for miracles, Maribeth, but now, I know I do.  Between you and me, if there are no further complications, I think she will recover quite nicely."

"And Liv and Keith?"

"Delighted.  They're in with her now, but in a few minutes, I am going to sedate her so she can get some rest, she's in too much pain to sleep properly without it, and then I am sending Liv and Keith off to have some breakfast."

"Alex, have you read the paper?"

"Oh, gosh, yes," Alex said, shock and dismay creeping into his voice.  "Remember, I called Peter to come in and cover for you?  I guess I should tell them about it, shouldn't I?"

"Yes, please do," Maribeth agreed, "and see if you can convince them to come out to the beach house.  Steve came home last night and got a look at it.  He was all alone, and I think it actually sent him into shock.  Now, he's just sitting there, staring.  Won't talk, won't eat, nothing."

"I see.  Do you want me to come out to the house?"

"No, thanks.  Steven, Dad, and I can take care of him for now.  I just think Liv might be able to get him to open up.  If Olivia would just settle this issue about who is really Emily's father, at least he won't have to bear that uncertainty any more."

Alex was thoughtful a moment.  "Ok, Maribeth, I'll see what I can do, but you have to realize, they may want to stay with their daughter."

"I know, Alex, all I am asking is that you try."

"All right, then.  I will call you back later."

As Alex hung up the phone and walked back down the hall toward Emily's room, he didn't see a nurse pick up the phone and dial 584-NEWS.

"Oh, it's you," Leigh Ann said rather carelessly when she entered the visitation room to see her flabby, middle aged husband, Rick pacing the room, looking like a wrung out dishrag.

"Yes, it's me!"  Rick snapped in surprise and moved to kiss his wife, but she turned and walked away from him, the irons she was wearing on her wrists and ankles jangling slightly with each step she took.  "Leigh Ann, what did you think you were doing?  Why did you do it?"

She sat at the table and folded her hands in front of her.  When she answered, she smiled up at him, but still managed to look disappointed and speak condescendingly.  

"My name is Liana," she said.  "My father was Ross Cainin."

She waited while Rick searched his cluttered little mind for the name.  Finally, he said, "The mafia don?"

"Yes.  Years ago, when Deputy Chief Sloan was a lieutenant working for Chief John Masters, he helped my father take over the Ganza organization.  My father was an undercover cop at the time."

"A dirty cop, yes, I've heard."

Leigh Ann was silent a minute.  As she sat there, she flexed her fingers, and as Rick watched her long red nails flash in and out of the shadow of her palms, he thought of a big cat, sheathing and unsheathing her claws, preparing to pounce on her prey.

"My father," she said patiently, "was a powerful man, a man who knew how to take charge of things.  Masters should have known my father would not be content to answer to him indefinitely.  When he grew tired of taking orders, he simply . . . " she rolled her eyes, searching for the right phrase, " . . . started writing his own orders."

"What does all of that have to do with you smuggling a gun into the federal courthouse and shooting a cop?  I heard you were gunning for Chief Sloan.  Is that true?"

"Oh, _will_ you _shut up_!"  She had already lost all patience with him, but in the next moment, she was oozing sweetness like honey.  "You see, Rick, that's why you'll never be a powerful man.  You don't know when to exercise patience and when to press an issue.  Now is a time to be patient, darling.  Relax.  I'll tell you everything you need to know, in _my _time."

"Ok, I'm listening," Rick said anxiously, taking a seat across the table from her, "just," he made a rolling motion with his hands, one circling the other, "get on with it, so I can call a lawyer for you."

Leigh Ann sighed deeply.  "What _is_ a woman to do?"  She sat very primly, and smiled at Rick until he ceased fidgeting and gave her his undivided attention.

"Now, as I was saying, my father decided to take charge of things for himself, and when he did that, my mother left him.  She didn't understand him.  Mother was a good teacher, but she wasn't very clever, you know?"  

She spoke of her mother as if she had been a simple child.  "She knew how to use a man, how to get what she wanted out of him, and she taught me that, too, but she didn't know how to deal with a powerful man.  When she left my father, she changed our names so that he couldn't find us.  I was six years old when I had to start calling myself Leigh Ann and calling her new husband Daddy."

She paused, and waited for Rick to jump in again.  He looked like he was itching to say something, but he held his peace, waiting.

"See," Leigh Ann said with mock encouragement, "you are learning patience already.  More's the pity, it's too little too late."  

When he remained silent in the face of her taunts, she smiled impishly and continued.  "As soon as I was old enough, I came back here, back home, to find my real daddy, but by then, he'd been killed by one of his . . . subordinates looking to move up in the organization."

"Cainin was killed by another dirty cop!" Rick interrupted.  "One he brought into the organization, and from what I hear, he had it coming.  In the ten years he was in charge of the Ganza organization, he killed ten cops, men he had worked with, who trusted him with their lives."

"What you hear!  What you hear!"  Leigh Ann was losing patience again.  "What you hear is what the police public information officers want you to hear.  My father was a man ahead of his time, killed by a petty fool who could not see his vision and was afraid."

Rick couldn't believe what he was hearing.  He was certain his wife was losing her mind.  "So why try to kill Sloan?"

"Because I could get to him!  Because he took my daddy away from me.  Because Masters was a long time dead and Archer, she's a woman, she was much too clever.  I was going to practice on Sloan first, but that bastard brat of his got in the way!"

"Sloan didn't kill your father."

"No, but he helped Masters and Archer put him in charge of the Ganza family."

"But your father is the one who turned dirty.  He chose his life Leigh Ann, don't you see that?  He is responsible for his own death."

"NO!"  Leigh Ann began to tremble with rage, but she quickly controlled it and continued her rambling.  "He would have excelled whatever he did.  Masters, Archer, and Sloan put him in charge of the Ganza family.  They took him away from me.  Men like my father are like shooting stars.  They burn brightly and die out quickly.  He was only here for a short time, and I didn't get to share it with him, because Sloan and his ilk removed him from me.  Just like Mr. Gorini!"

Tears were spilling down her face now, and Rick watched in amazement.  It was the first time he had ever seen his wife cry.  Neither the pain of childbirth nor the death of her own mother had brought a tear to her eyes, but now, she was weeping over a man he'd never heard her speak of.

"Just like _who_?"

"Roger Gorini, you idiot!  He was my lover!"  When she saw Rick's look of surprise at her revelation, a cruel smile lit her face and she began to laugh wickedly.  "Oh, my, Rick, you simple, silly fool, surely you must have known I had taken a lover."

"No, I . . . that is . . . I thought you loved me.  You married me, we . . . we said our vows," even in his shocked state, he knew it was lame, but he really had never realized.

"Loved you?"  Leigh Ann laughed at her husband in disbelief.  "Loved you?  Rick, darling, if I had loved you, I never would have married you.  Marriage is a political institution designed so that two people can share their assets and have a better chance at financial success.  It's nothing more than a business arrangement cloaked in romance.  I married you so I could live in Beverly Hills and play tennis at the club."

"But, the kids, Leigh Ann.  What about the kids?"

"Oh, you can keep them."  She waved her hand dismissively.  "I never wanted them anyway.  I just had them to keep you happy, or didn't you know that, either?"

"No," Rick said, in shock, "no, I didn't know.  I don't think I ever knew you at all."  He went over to the door and knocked.  When the police guard opened it to let him out, he muttered to the officer, "I guess I should call a lawyer."

"Criminal or divorce?" the young man asked, forgetting for the moment that eavesdropping on prisoners' family visits was frowned upon, if not illegal.

"I . . . I'm not sure," Rick replied.

Rick stumbled out of the station, heartbroken, his mind filled with confusion, wondering what he would tell his children and his parents.  His parents had really liked Leigh Ann, and his children, well, she had never been the most affectionate of mothers, but he was sure they loved her, and he thought they had always believed she loved them.  _Perhaps it was the change of life.  Some women just fall to pieces when the time comes.  Maybe I should have been more attentive.  Maybe she's just lost her mind._

As he came out of the police station, he was momentarily blinded by the bright lights of a television news crew.  He threw up his arm to shield his face, but he stopped in mid stride when he heard the reporter mentioning his wife's name.

"Lieutenant Stephens and Leigh Ann Bergman, Chief Sloan's personal assistant, are the only ones who have been charged so far in this case, Dan, but the list of possible indictments is already enormous and still growing," Jonas said from the Valley Bureau headquarters.

"I can't believe they're putting him back on," Al Cioffi complained.  "The man is an idiot and an instigator."

"First, there's Lieutenant Stephens, who organized the plot to kidnap Mr. Moretti.  Then there are her cohorts, Lieutenant Martin Rossi, Sergeant John Velasquez, and Officer Donald Marino."  

"That's exactly why they're puttin' him back on," Moretti said.  "His bullshit makes good press, great ratin's.  He's their bread an' butter."  Looking from Captain Cioffi to Agent Wagner, he added, "You know your names will come up sooner or later."

"Yeah," Wagner agreed, "we know."

"And it won't be the first time for either of us," Cioffi added.  "It's easy to find a scandal when you only have half the story and you speculate on the other half.  The hell of it is, by the time the truth comes out, people have generally gotten bored and stopped listening."

"Federal Marshals Ray Swanson and Nick Caputo as well as FBI Agent Timothy Brown were late for their shift at the safe house where Mr. Moretti was being kept when he was kidnapped," Jonas continued.  "They could be charged with dereliction of duty at the least, but charges against them could include accessory to kidnapping and conspiracy to commit murder before it's all over."

"But he's full of it!" Agent Wagner exclaimed.  "I talked to Tim Brown.  They were late because the car they were traveling in had a flat.  They all met at FBI headquarters and shared one ride to the safe house so as not to draw attention."

"That doesn't matter," Moretti explained.  "People wanna good story, an' he can make it up on the fly.  The juicier it is, the more people watch, the more advertisers wanna get their ads on this station, the more they can charge ta run the ads.  It's all about money."

"Deputy Chief Sloan likes to keep his friends close," Jonas said, "and this list proves just how many friends he has.  Besides Ms. Bergman, the task force included six members of the LAPD, three FBI agents, and a number of civilians."

"I know," Wagner said, "but it stinks."

"Everybody knows it stinks," Moretti agreed, "but they still don't turn it off."

"Chief Sloan, Commander Cheryl Banks, Captains Alberto Cioffi and Dion Bentley-Wagner, and Officers Alfredo Cioffi and Charles Donovan, the two rookies Sloan has suspended, made up the LAPD contingent.  Ron Wagner, Special Agent in Charge of Missing Persons Investigations for the FBI's LA field office, and two of his subordinates, Agents Timothy Brown and Nicholas Solomon contributed on behalf of the FBI and helped program Lieutenant Stephens and all of her disguises into the national missing persons/most wanted facial recognition program.  Chief Sloan himself delivered to Lieutenant Stephens $100,000 provided by her parents.  That's aiding and abetting a fugitive.  Chief Sloan's father, wife, and son, Mark, Maribeth, and Steven Sloan; as well as his business partner, Dr. Jesse Travis; his close friend, Chief County Medical Examiner, Amanda Bentley-Wagner; his goddaughter and godson, Hannah Wagner and Dr. CJ Livingston-Wagner, and his goddaughter, Lauren Travis also worked with the taskforce from time to time.  The indictments could reach all the way back to Lieutenant Stephen's birthplace in Clearfield County, Pennsylvania.  As I understand it, her uncle, Clearfield County Sheriff Kenneth Stephens played an integral part in the taskforce . . . "

Much to Agent Wagner and Captain Cioffi's disgust, Jonas continued rambling on and on, naming people neither of them had ever heard of as possible contributors to a vast conspiracy to eliminate Moretti before he could do any further damage to Vincent Gaudino's organization.  

"Dorrie Fischer?" Cioffi asked as another unfamiliar name was mentioned.

Ron wrinkled his brow in thought.  "The pizza guy!" he shouted, snapping his fingers with sudden recognition.  "The same kid always delivered.  I remember him now.  Brown hair, freckles, his hair went every which way.  Yeah.  His name was Dorrie.  I asked him if he was the only delivery boy they had, and he said no, but we were becoming predictable, and he made it a point to be around when we ordered so he could get the run.  Apparently we were good tippers."

"I see," Cioffi replied.  "Maybe we should ask for a raise?" he suggested as he headed off for a shower.

Though they hated what they were hearing, they never turned the TV off.

"Emmy, sweetheart, I love you.  I love you, baby, and I am so proud of you."  Olivia ignored her own tears to wipe away her daughter's.  Unable to think of anything else to say as important as the few words she had just uttered, she stood there, crying softly, stroking Emily's hair, and dabbing away her tears as Keith spoke.

"You're a tough one, aren't you, kiddo?  Do you want to know what's happening?"

Because of the ventilator tube down her throat, it hurt to nod her head, so, without lifting her arm from the mattress, Emily gave her dad the thumbs up instead.

"Well, they got a conviction on Gaudino.  You remember that?"

Again, Emily gave the thumbs up.

"Good.  Moretti is safe.  Wagner took him to a safe house somewhere.  You did your job.  You saved the Chief, too.  By now, he's probably just waking up to breakfast with his father, wife, and son.  In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if that young man of yours comes to visit you before the day is out.  Your doctors sent him away last night, but he said he'd be back."  

Emily heard the false cheer in her father's voice, and she narrowed her eyes at him.  Keith noticed the look.  _Time to quit stalling.  She knows there's more, and she expects you to be honest with her.  _Keith took a deep breath, he had to finish this, but he wasn't sure his daughter was ready to hear it anymore than he was willing to tell it.  "Leigh Ann shot you . . . four times.  She was gunning for the Chief, but you knocked him out of the way.  I saw it all, Em.  I . . . was right beside her, but I couldn't stop her . . . I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry, Em."

Emily was growing distressed, and it showed on the monitors, so Keith said simply, "I'll shut up now."

Emily would have none of it.  It hurt to move and she couldn't talk, so she started snapping her fingers until her dad looked at her hand.  Then she wiggled her fingers and reached weakly for him.  Keith slipped his hand in hers, and was surprised how cold her fingers were.  Slowly, painfully, Emily lifted his hand in hers to put it over her heart.  She winced slightly as the stitches pulled when the weight on top of her bandages stretched the skin, but when her father tried to pull away, she held his hand more firmly in place.  Finally, when she was certain he would not move, she gave him the thumbs up.  Then she pointed to herself and to her father and gave the thumbs up again.

Teary eyed, but smiling, Keith said, "I love you, too, kiddo, and thank you.  I tried my best, and it wasn't enough, but since you're forgiving me, I will try to forgive myself.  Now, may I move my hand so I don't hurt you any more?"

Emily gave the thumbs up again, and let her hand slide limply back to her side.  If the ventilator had not been regulating her breathing, she would have sighed in relief as the pressure on her incision was released.  As it was, she rolled her eyes, and Olivia, misinterpreting the gesture giggled and said, "That's your father, Em.  A little thickheaded sometimes, but his heart's always in the right place."

It took Emily a moment to figure out that the roll of her eyes had precipitated her mother's comment.  Then, appreciating the humor and the truth in it, and knowing there was no way she could explain the gesture, she just gave the thumbs up.

"Liv, Keith, may I speak to you a minute?"

Emily couldn't hear her parents' conversation with her doctor, but she could hear their voices getting more and more agitated and knew they were arguing.  They had always argued, about her, about money, about religion, politics, and ethics, but mostly about her, and somehow, she had the feeling that this argument was about her, too.  After a few minutes, her mom and dad and her doctor came back in.

"Emily," her mom said gently, "Dr. Martin is going to sedate you soon, but he wants us to go somewhere while you sleep.  There's a story in the newspaper, and it says some bad things about you and the Chief and some other people who have tried to help you and Mr. Moretti.  The Chief is very upset about it, and Dr. Martin thinks we could help straighten things out.  I told him we'd be happy to help, but only if it's ok with you that we go."

For the first time since she recovered from the BioGen virus, Emily was scared.  She was hurting and knew she was very ill, and she was in trouble and in a strange place, but her parents were asking if they could leave her alone.  She knew the situation with the Chief must be very serious, or her mother wouldn't be making such a request, but she was just so scared.  Finally, she snapped her fingers to get their attention.  Once her doctor was looking at her hand, she pointed to herself and gave the thumbs up.

"You're ok," Alex said with a smile.  "Well, thank you for your opinion, doctor, but . . . "

Snapping interrupted him, and he looked back to Emily's hand.  She pointed to herself, gave the thumbs up, and then held her hand slightly off the mattress and wobbled it right and left as if to indicate 'so-so.'

"Ohhh," Alex said as realization dawned.  "You're asking if you will be ok, aren't you?"

He was rewarded with the thumbs up.

"Do you want me to tell you about your condition?"

Thumbs up.

Alex drew up a chair and prepared to again recite the list of insults that had been inflicted upon her anatomy.  It was a list he had already committed to memory and didn't think he was ever likely to forget, especially as he had never expected her to see another sunrise, and yet, here she was.  "You took four ceramic polycarbonate bullets.  One to the shoulder, two to the chest, and one to the abdomen . . . "

"Wagner?"

"Yeah?"

"You think when you get in the shower, you can sorta take your time?  I wanna talk ta my son."

"You're gonna tell him who you are, aren't you?"

"I think so."

"Don't you think it's a little soon?  He just met you yesterday."

"It might be, but the way these reporters are goin' at it, they just might start lookin' inta everybody's background, an' once the word hits the street, it'll be too late for sure."

"I suppose so.  Ok, I'll try to give you an hour.  If you still need more time, I'll just go into the bedroom and have a nap."  Wagner stretched his long, lean frame, and said, "That couch is not the most comfortable sleep I have had, and I could do with some real rest."

"Ok, an' thanks," Moretti said, sincerely grateful.

". . . and so here you are," Alex finished.  "You can probably tell from how you are feeling that you are in very serious condition."  He waited for Emily to give him the thumbs up, which he now knew meant 'yes,' before he continued.  "You are at risk for a number of complications, still, including infection and DVT, or deep vein thrombosis, which means developing a dangerous blood clot.  Do you understand?"

Thumbs up.

"Right now, the best thing for you is rest," Alex continued.  "So, in a minute, I am going to sedate you.  Since you will be sleeping most of the day, I thought now would be a good time for your parents to go have a bite to eat, clean up, and change their clothes."

Emily again gave the thumbs up, agreeing with him.

"The thing is, Emily," Alex explained, knowing that he was about to ask a lot of both his patient and her parents, "some reporter has taken everything that happened over the past month and turned it into a huge scandal by leaving out important details, like the fact that you were protecting Mr. Moretti and he lived to testify.  It is creating a lot of problems for Steve."  

At her look of confusion, he clarified, "That is, this story, well, they're using it to make the Chief and a lot of other good cops look dirty."

Emily immediately became quite agitated, and Alex spent the next several minutes trying to calm her.  Finally, when he had convinced her that she was really at no fault for the stories and that they were all just the product of an irresponsible press, he presented his request.  

"Your parents could help clear up some of the misunderstandings about the money that they brought out for you, the house you stayed in when Jesse treated your injured shoulder right after you took Moretti, and other things," he said.  "They really don't want to leave you alone, and I know you probably don't want them to go, but they have decided to let me ask you a favor.  I am off duty now.  If I stayed with you until they came back, would it be ok for them to go talk to the Chief and try to straighten some of this out?"

Emily didn't bother to think over her response.  She knew what she had to do.  Snapping her fingers to direct everyone's attention to her hand again, she very deliberately pointed to her mother and then her father.  Then she made a flicking motion with her wrist to indicate they should go.  Pointing to her doctor, and then the floor, she asked him to stay.  Finally, she pointed to herself and gave the thumbs up.

"Ok, Em," Keith said, "you want us to go, and Alex can stay.  You'll be ok.  Is that right?"

She gave the thumbs up.

"You're sure?" Liv double-checked.

Tears streaming from her eyes, Emily gave the thumbs up once more, and then wobbled her hand in a gesture of uncertainty.

"Sort of sure, eh?  What if Daddy and I stayed with you until you were asleep, would you like that?"

Despite the discomfort of the ventilator tube, Emily wanted to make sure they knew just how much she would like that.  Slowly, painfully, she nodded.

"Ok, then, baby.  Alex is gonna sedate you soon, and when he does, Daddy and I will stay right here until you are asleep."

Alex slipped a needle into the catheter in Emily's shoulder, and as he did so, he spoke soothingly to his patient.  "This will make you sleep all day, Emily, and probably well into the night.  Just relax, and don't fight it.  Sleep is the best thing for you, now."

When he had finished administering the medication, Liv and Keith resumed their seat at her bedside, Liv on her husband's lap, holding her daughter's hand, Keith, with his arms around his wife, clasping her hands around that of his daughter.

"I'll be back in about ten minutes," Alex said.

"Breakfast is ready," Moretti said.

"Be there in a minute," Al Cioffi replied from the living room.

Moretti fidgeted nervously and fussed with the plates of food he had set on the table.  They were having omelets, heavy on the veggies, light on the cheese; 'fried' tomato slices, which had sizzled on the griddle in their own juices rather than a lot of grease; whole wheat toast with no-sugar-added peach preserves, fresh, sliced strawberries, and coffee.  It was a lot of food, to be sure, but Moretti had found that when he ate right, he could eat more for fewer calories and feel completely satisfied.

"Wow, that's a lot of food!" Al exclaimed when he came out to the kitchen to wash his hands because Agent Wagner was in the bathroom.

"I . . . I didn't know what you liked," Moretti explained, "So, I made a bunch of different things.  I figured somethin' would appeal to ya."

"Hey, it all looks great," Al said cheerfully, "and for future reference, I'll eat anything as long as it doesn't bite back."

Moretti laughed and said, "Ok, I'll remember that."

For a while, they sat in silence, Al relishing his meal, and Moretti just pushing the food around on his plate.  Eventually, Al, finally sated, looked up and realized Moretti had barely eaten.

"Something wrong, Moretti?"

"Huh?  Oh, uh, no.  I . . . I guess I got a lot on my mind."

Al nodded, and then looked the older man over closely.  He looked scared.

"Mr. Moretti, we _will_ keep you safe."

"I know," Moretti said thoughtfully, then added, "but don't tell Wagner that.  It's too much fun ta needle him."

Al laughed aloud, then.  "I know what you mean.  He's a good guy, and I have known him a lot of years, but it is just so easy to get under his skin."  Growing serious again, he said, "So, if it's not that, then what's on your mind?"

"I been thinkin' about my kid," Moretti said, beating around the bush.  "When this is all over . . . I dunno . . . I'd kinda like him ta know . . . that is, I'd wanna tell him I'm proud of him, an' I'm sorry I wasn't there for him.  I suppose he was better off without me, but a kid needs a dad, an' I let him down.  Gimme some help here, how would ya react if someone like me came outta the woodwork ta claim ya for his son?"

Al became very thoughtful and uneasy.  Having grown up in a large, extended Italian family, he'd always felt somewhat ashamed to be the cousin with no dad.

"Mr. Moretti, I never knew my father.  My mother never told me about him, nothing good or bad, just that she knew she could never spend her life with him, and he didn't want to have a family with her anyway."

Al stopped talking as if he had said all he was going to, but Moretti needed more before he finally came out with the truth.

"How would ya feel about him if he finally showed up in your life?  Would ya hate him, or want ta get ta know him better?  What would ya say ta him?"

Though he didn't like the direction this conversation was headed, like so many other things that had happened the past couple of days, Al felt powerless to stop it.

"I don't think I'd hate him," Al confessed.  "I never did, but I missed him.  I always wondered why he never came to see me.  I figured maybe he was dead or in jail or something, but Mom never told me, and I never asked, because I knew it would hurt her too much to talk about it.  I guess . . . I guess I would want to know why he never gave a damn about me."

"I never knew about ya until about a year ago, son," Moretti told him softly, "an' when I found out who ya were an' what a fine man ya had become without anyone ta teach ya how, well, I figured I had ta do something decent for a change before I introduced myself."

"What did you call me?"

"Son.  I'm your father."

"No, you're not."  Al stood up from the table, clearly shaken.

Moretti looked up at his son, and regretted the years he had lost.  He felt guilty for changing this man's world so unexpectedly, and so suddenly, but he had to believe he had done it for the right reasons.

"Sooner or later, the press is gonna find out, Al," Moretti warned him.  "They're gonna dig deep into the background of everybody connected ta Sloan, an' they're gonna find out I'm your father.  I know ya don't wanna believe it, an' I won't blame ya if ya do hate me, but I figured it would be easier hearin' it for the first time from me than from some reporter who's stickin' a microphone in your face."

"You are not my father," Al insisted.

"Look, son . . . "

"NO!  Don't call me that!"  Al thrust his hand up, creating a barrier between himself and Moretti, and he began to back away from the table.  "I am not your son.  I don't want to be your son."

"It's not like ya have much of a choice."

"_I said no!_" Al insisted, and he stumbled into the living room where he stood, breathing heavily for a few seconds, trying to process what he had just been told.  Then he looked to the one bedroom of the tiny safe house and knew he had to talk to Wagner.

By about eight o'clock, Emily was sleeping soundly.  Liv and Keith each kissed her head, and, trusting her to Alex's expert care, they headed off to Malibu to see if they could help their friends.  They agreed that it was the least they could do considering all that the Sloan's had done for them in the time they had been in LA, and though the timing couldn't have been much worse, their daughter had reminded them that it was indeed the right thing to do.  They had always taught Emily to do the right thing, no matter what, and in the past few weeks, she had obeyed their teachings to the letter.  Now they were finding out how hard it was to live the lessons they had so easily taught.

As they pulled away from the hospital, Olivia looked up toward Emily's room and sighed deeply with the weight of tears she didn't dare shed.  "What if something happens while we're gone?"

"There's nothing we can do for her here," Keith said stoically.  "But we can put her mind at ease by talking to the Sloan's and helping them.  What's more, she asked us to do this.  What choice do we have?"

Olivia smiled weakly then, and patted her husband's hand as it rested on the gearshift, ready to put the car into reverse.  "Not much of one, I suppose.  All right, let's go.  Let's do this for Em and then get back here."


	27. Blood Will Out

** (Chapter 27.  CGH, beach house, safe house.  March 29, 2033.)**

Ron had just finished a long, hot shower.  He'd kept the water pounding on his sore, aching body until it went cold on him, and then he'd stepped out and toweled off.  Now, he was just preparing to lie down for some real sleep before his relief arrived.  Stepping from the shower to the bedroom wrapped in nothing but a towel, he headed for his overnight bag to find a pair of shorts to sleep in when Al Cioffi came bursting in, crossed the room in two angry strides, and smashed him in the jaw with a thundering right.

"You son of a bitch!  You knew, didn't you?"

Ron staggered against the wall from the force of Cioffi's blow.  A moment later, he stood up, shook his head to clear it, and headed for the bed to open his overnight bag again.  "Jeeze, Al, at least let a guy get his shorts on before you pick a fight, would you?"

"Dammit, answer me.  Did you know he was my father?"  
  


"Yes."

"I want to be removed from the guard detail."

Ron grew thoughtful.  Then, finding his boxers, he pulled them on, took out a t-shirt, and slipped into it.  Finally, he turned to Al and said, "We can do that, but first I want you to take some time and think about this.  He wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."

"He wouldn't be here if it weren't for immunity," Al countered.

"No," Ron corrected him.  "When he found out who you were, he came to me.  We had nothing on him.  He was completely in the clear.  He is here because of you.  Chew on that for a while, then if you still want off the detail, tell him why before you come to me.  If you can look him in the eye and explain your reasons for leaving, I will have you removed from the assignment."

"I don't think he's really catatonic," Maribeth explained as she led Liv and Keith through the beach house to the kitchen at just past nine.  "I think he's just afraid he'll completely lose his grip if he lets go even a little."

"I'm not surprised," Liv said, her voice harsh with anger.  "I read the article on the way over here, and it's absolute trash.  It's nothing but birdcage liner, and I'm not sure it's even good enough for that.  Can't you get rid of some of those reporters?"

"Not without shooting them, no," Maribeth said dryly, "and I know what you mean about the paper, Liv, but Steve, being Steve, just let every word of it cut into him.  I have never seen him hurt like this before, and, well, I know a lot is still up in the air, how the public will respond, how the department will react, but I was thinking, if you could just tell him the truth about Emily, I think that would help a lot.  Amanda tells me he first suspected he was her father about a month ago."

"A _month_ ago?  Why the hell didn't anyone _tell_ me?" Liv demanded and Maribeth knew she was furious.  "I would have told him earlier if someone would have just said something."

"Well, only Amanda and Jesse knew, and Steve made them promise to keep it to themselves," Mark said as Liv entered the kitchen.  He knew what they were talking about.  There could only be one possible topic at this moment.

"I see, and now you all want me to set the record straight, so whatever the truth may be, he doesn't have to worry about finding out anymore."

"Yes," Steven said, "and so I don't have to worry either."

"Ok.  Olivia and I talked about this on the way here," Keith said.  "Mark and Steven, if we could just go downstairs, I will tell you all about the circumstances surrounding Emily's birth.  O is going to stay up here and talk to Maribeth and Steve.  We just figured Steve would need, and well, he deserves to get a more detailed version, and, because she is his wife, Maribeth should hear the whole story, too."

"All right," Steven agreed.  "I'll make a pot of coffee and we can talk, but please, is she my sister?"

"I'll answer all your questions downstairs, Steven.  Let's go, son."

As the men headed down to the lower apartment, Liv turned to Maribeth and said, "What do you think would be easier?  Should we go see him together, you first, me first, or do you want to try to get him to come out here?"

After a moment's thought, Maribeth decided, "Right now, I don't think he could take us both at once.  He seems to feel everything that has gone wrong over the past few weeks is his fault.  Do you blame him for what has happened, Liv?"

"No, not at all."  

Maribeth smiled, she was very heartened by the fact that the answer came with no hesitation whatsoever.  "Then I think you should go in there and tell him that.  Talk to him about Emily and reassure him.  I think he will feel better once he knows that you don't intend to lay any of this at his door.  Then I will come in, and you can tell us both whatever it is you have to tell us."

"Give me, say . . . ten minutes?"

"Ok, that will be fine, but Liv?"

"Yes?"  
  


"Is she . . . that is, is he her . . . " Maribeth so dreaded the answer, for so many reasons, that she was unable to ask the question.

"Maribeth, do you really think I would keep a secret like that, from him, for thirty years?"

"I don't think so, Liv, but I don't know you well enough to be sure."

"Well, I'm sorry," Liv said, sounding genuinely apologetic, "but after all that has happened, I think Steve deserves to be the first to know."

Biting her lip and wringing her hands, Maribeth nodded her agreement.  "I . . . I'll fix some coffee.  Tea for you?"

"Yes, please, and thank you, Maribeth."

"Are you sure Agent Wagner won't mind us coming up early?"  Tim Brown asked as Cheryl walked out to the police parking lot with him.

"Positive.  In fact, I think he'll thank us," she replied.

"Ok, I guess so.  You know him better than I do.  Do you wanna drive or shall I?" 

"You can," she said with a grin.  "The FBI will take all the glory, might as well let them cover the gas bill, too."

"Ouch, that hurt," Tim replied, laughing back at her as they climbed in the car.

"Just be sure you aren't followed," Cheryl said as he started the engine, "And keep checking.  It's a long way to Barstow, and if they just know the town, they could pick us up anywhere along the route."

Liv went quietly down the hall to the master bedroom and knocked lightly.  When she got no answer, she opened the door a crack and called in, "Steve?  It's Liv.  If you're not decent, cover yourself.  I'm coming in."

After a moment, she pushed the door open and entered.  The whole room seemed gray and sad and had an air of mourning.  _I shouldn't be surprised, that article crucified him.  He has lost a lot in the past twenty-four hours._  Steve lay on the bed facing the wall, curled up almost in the fetal position, wrapped around a pillow, clutching it to his chest.  He was perfectly still, and even when Liv came and sat beside him, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, he did not move.  He didn't even look at her.

"You've been under a lot of pressure lately," Liv said, cursing herself for stating the obvious, but not knowing where else to begin.  "Maribeth, your dad, and Steven thought I might be able to lighten the load by talking to you about Emily."

Liv was greeted with absolute silence.  For a while, she waited, but soon, she knew she needed to say more.

"It's not your fault, Steve.  Leigh Ann pulled the trigger.  Steve, I don't blame you, neither does Keith, nor Em."

Finally, there was a hint of recognition.  Liv waited patiently, and eventually, Steve uncurled his long, lean frame, stretched, sat up, and after several more moments of staring silently, he asked, very softly, "Is she ok?"

"As ok as can be expected, I guess," Liv was deliberately vague.  She wanted to draw Steve out more.

It took a few seconds, but finally, he asked, "What does that mean?"

"Well, her condition's still critical," Liv explained, "but she is stable now, and she has woken up.  She recognized Keith and me, and she was able to communicate a little with hand signals.  She was lucid before Alex sedated her again."

"Why'd he sedate her?"

"She's in a lot of pain, Steve.  So much that she can't rest, and she really needs to rest now, if she is to recover.  He's sitting with her until Keith and I get back to the hospital."

They sat in silence for several minutes, then finally, Liv said simply, "She's not your daughter, Steve.  Keith is her daddy."

Immediately, two big tears formed in Steve's eyes and rolled down his cheeks.  He tried several deep breaths to calm himself, but just found himself sniffling, gasping, and fighting for air.  Liv drew him into a gentle hug and rubbed slow circles on his back.  

"Are you happy about that, or sad?" she asked.

After a minute, Steve said, "I don't know."  For a little while, he clung to Liv and said, "I . . . I guess I am more relieved than anything.  I'm happy for Steven, I think he loves her."

Liv sat back from the hug, but she didn't let go completely because she had a feeling Steve needed her to maintain the contact.  "I think he does, too."  

The two of them were quiet again, and then Liv asked, "Why didn't you just ask me?  It would have been a reasonable question under the circumstances."

"So much was happening all the time, Liv.  Everyone was so worried.  It just seemed like a real bad time to bring up one more problem."

"But, Steve, it would have been one less worry for you."

"I suppose," Steve agreed, "but if I was right, then I would have had to explain it to Maribeth, you would have to explain it to Keith, and we would both have to explain to Steven why he had to stop seeing the woman he loved.  I couldn't face all of that on top of everything else that was going on."

"So, you kept it to yourself and worried about it all alone, huh?"

Steve nodded.

"Idiot."  

Steve smiled slightly.  The insult didn't sting because it was said with so much affection.  "It's easy to say that now," Steve said, "but not knowing made it so hard to talk about."

"I imagine it would.  So, do you want to know about the day she was born and all the trouble we had after that?"  Liv's voice was sad, and for some reason, Steve desperately wanted to cheer her.

"Wow, she started early, didn't she?"

"Started early?"

Steve gave a weak lopsided grin, "Causing trouble."

It was a poor joke, but she appreciated the effort, and so, responded in kind.  "Oh, yeah, she sure did, but I wouldn't trade a minute of it."

Steve swallowed hard.  After weeks of wondering and worrying about what would happen when he finally asked, now that he knew he wasn't Emily's father, he found it hard to explain some of the coincidences that had initially made him think she was his child.

"She's so tall, Liv, and you're . . . well, you're not, and she's left handed, and the wedding was in February, but she was born in September.  Are you sure she's Keith's?"

"Yes, Steve, I'm certain.  There was talk, and for a while, we wondered, but I know she's his."

Liv and Steve remained quiet for several more minutes, until someone knocked at the door.  

"Steve?  Liv?  Can I come in?"

"Sure, Mar," Steve called out as Liv moved off the bed to sit in a chair nearby.  As his wife brought in a tray of coffee, tea, and cakes, he said without preamble, "She's not my daughter, Mar.  She's not mine."

Maribeth quickly put the tray down, and then, bringing her hands up to her mouth muttered, "Thank God, oh, thank God."  She started to cry with relief, and the sat in the space Liv had just vacated and hugged her husband tight.  She sat back, but continued to hold his hands as, for several moments, she struggled for control, then, unable to squelch a delighted smile she looked at Olivia and, blushing with shame at her behavior, said, "I'm sure she's a lovely girl, Liv, and my son and husband both think the world of her.  It's just that, well, if she were Steve's daughter, she would . . . that is . . ."

"It would upset the applecart?"

"Well, yeah, exactly." 

Again, there was an awkward silence, then Steve, remembering something Liv had mentioned a moment ago, asked, "Liv, what happened when she was born?  You said there was talk.  Did people think she was mine?"

"Steve!" Maribeth was shocked.  "Liv, I'm sorry, he's just been under so much pressure . . . "

"It's ok," Olivia reassured them both.  "Steve, it's a long story, and I will tell you all of it, but first, let me answer your concerns about her height and her being left handed, ok?"

Steve and Maribeth nodded, and she began.  "One summer, when I was maybe nine years old, Keith's daddy had an accident while making hay . . . "

Maribeth looked at her husband, and they both smiled.  Olivia loved to tell stories.  Why use one word when fifteen would do?

Moretti occupied himself quietly in the kitchen cleaning up the breakfast dishes and planning lunch.  There were three nice looking chicken breasts in the fridge and some corn-on-the-cob.  Add some green beans and a salad, and he could do something nice with that.

After Al had charged out of the kitchen in search of Agent Wagner, Moretti had heard raised voices, and he was certain he had heard the sound of someone getting hit, and he knew there was no point in going after his son.  He would just have to wait for Al to come to him.  _And if he never does?_

Moretti sighed deeply and started drawing the water to wash the dishes.  _Then you've only lost something that was never really yours anyway._

"Well, according to Amanda," Mark said, "besides her temper and her stubbornness, he thought she was unusually tall and strong, and he noticed she was left handed.  Then, of course, there's her birth date."

Keith nodded and knew he could easily explain those traits without getting too deep into personal matters he didn't really want to discuss.  After assuring them that there was no way Steve could be Emily's father, he had asked Mark and Steven to tell him why Steve had thought otherwise, and he was pleased that all of Steve's concerns were really quite superficial.

"Well, first of all, O's dad was called Big John Regis for a reason" Keith told them.  "The man was six feet four inches tall, and built like a brick outhouse.  He was purely massive, and it was all muscle.  I remember one time we were baling hay.  I was about twelve years old, and the front wheels of the tractor broke through the roof of a groundhog's tunnel.  The tractor tipped, and Dad was pinned underneath."

"That kind of accident can cause a serious injury," Mark said.

"Don't I know it," Keith replied.  "I just started to scream, certain my dad was going to be crushed to death before my eyes.  The men on the other tractor and wagon had gone back to the barn with their load, so it was just Mr. Regis and Dad and me.  Well, Big John looked at me and just shouted, 'Stop it, Keith.'  He had a really deep voice, even when he whispered, it carried like thunder from the mountains, and when he yelled at me, you better believe I did what he said.  He had me cut the engine on the tractor, but the wagon tongue and hitch had twisted when the tractor tipped and we couldn't unhitch the wagon.  So, Big John took hold of one of the big rear tires of the tractor, and pushed.  He set it and the wagon upright with one shove and I was able to help my dad out from under."

"Sounds like a very strong man," Steven commented.

"He was.  And a big man, in every sense of the word."  Keith wasn't surprised by the curious looks he got, but he just smiled and continued his story, knowing that it would all be clear in time.

"Well, it was supposed to rain that afternoon," Liv explained to Maribeth and Steve, having no idea her husband was telling the same story downstairs.  It just so perfectly typified her father's behavior and attitude, and so beautifully explained Emily's heritage from the Regis family, that it had seemed the natural choice for explaining the young woman's personality and appearance.  "And when the tractor tipped, the axle bent, so even if they got a new wagon, with nothing to haul it, they wouldn't be able to finish getting the hay in.  Jud was worried, and insisted he should stay to help, but Daddy sent him and May and the boys off to the hospital, and it was a good thing, too.  Jud had a punctured lung and would have killed himself if he had tried to finish the job."

"Farmers are stubborn, sometimes foolish people, aren't they?" Maribeth commented.  She was still seated on the bed next to Steve, a hand resting on his knee in an unconsciously possessive, affectionate gesture.  "I grew up in Kansas and knew a lot of them."

"They can be," Liv agreed, "but they're usually pretty desperate, too.  Their survival depends as much on the whims of the weather as on their own sweat and hard labor.  Daddy and Jud were close friends, and Daddy knew Jud had had a hard time the year before.  If he lost his hay crop, he'd have to sell some of his stock to buy hay for the rest.  That would cut his milk production, and he might have trouble making his bank notes.  Then, there would be the added cost of the medical bills, and fixing the wagon and tractor.  Daddy knew losing the hay crop would be a disaster for Jud."

"He really was at fate's mercy, wasn't he?" Steve asked.  "It amazes me that small farmers can make a living."

"Some of them don't," Liv said, "but Jud was lucky.  He had friends like my dad."  She smiled and continued her story.  "When the second wagon came back out, they loaded Jud on it, and everyone rode back to the house.  Then Daddy called home, and had my three oldest brothers, Benny, John-John, and Pauly, go over to Jud's place and help with the hay making.  They lost a lot of time waiting for the second tractor and wagon, but they kept working with just the one until it came.  When the boys got there, Daddy worked them hard."

Alex sat sprawled in the chair next to Emily's bed, talking to her in a low voice.  Every rational part of his brain told him she couldn't hear him, but every rational part of his brain had also told him she should have been dead by now, too, so he ignored rational thoughts and kept talking.

"You keep surprising us, Emily, and you're making me look like a fool, but keep it up."

He leaned forward and squeezed her hand gently.

"Your folks love you so much, Em.  I never knew Olivia when she was with Steve, but I have gotten to know her a little in the past couple of months just by working with Steve now and then on trying to get you back.  She still needs you.  There are things she needs to say to you, and I imagine, things you want to say to her, so embarrass me all you want, just get well."

"Everyone who was there swears the Regis boys brought in two loads of hay for every one the other crew managed," Keith continued for Mark and Steven.  "I suppose they were just so used to working together that everything ran like clockwork for them, but even so, it was an amazing feat.  They just got the last wagonload in before the storm started.  By the time Mom, Kenney, and I got home that night, Mrs. Regis had come over with Andy, Liv, and Beth, and she had fed all the men and had dinner waiting for us, ham, string beans, and potatoes with cherry pie and vanilla ice cream for dessert.  It's odd I remember that, but I think it was the best ham dinner I've ever had, probably because it was such a kindness.

"They kept dad in the hospital for a while because he had a punctured lung, but every day, one or more of the Regis boys would come over and help with the chores.  Kenney and I never could have managed it ourselves, and there was no way Dad could have paid a hand to help.  Big John Regis and his kids saved our farm for us that summer."

Keith's tone became very grave as he continued.  "What nobody knew at the time was that Benny, John-John, and Pauly had been bringing in the hay at their own place when Big John called them.  When the rain started, it didn't let up.  It rained some every day for the next eighteen days.  Even if the hay hadn't rotted in the field, the ground was too wet to get the tractor out.  They lost almost the whole crop and were facing the same disaster they had saved us from."

"Well," Liv said, "word got out about what had happened, but to save my dad's pride, no one said anything about it to him.  They were all farmers, or depended on the farmers for business, and so they knew he was worried to death about what would happen come winter.  Then one Saturday morning when the back roads had finally dried enough for travel, Daddy came out of the milk house to see a line of tractors hauling wagons loaded with hay up to the barn.  There were dozens of them."  Liv's voice filled with astonishment even now.  

She smiled, remembering the kindness of her friends and neighbors.  "Some of the farmers had been traveling since dawn and had come from as far as sixty miles away.  There were people there whom we had only ever seen twice a year, at the County Fair in October and the State Farm Show in Harrisburg in January.  Jud and the other men at the Grange had started calling around and visiting people, telling them what Daddy had sacrificed to help Jud out of his jam, and before they knew it, they had organized this neighborly . . . pilgrimage, I guess you could call it."

Liv was beginning to choke with emotion, but she managed to continue her tale.  "I remember coming out of the house, and running barefoot across the cold, wet grass to stand beside my dad as the tractors rolled on up our driveway.  My daddy was always a big softie, but this kindness, it was just too much for him.  Great big tears rolled down his face.  It was such a relief.  Jud was at the head of the line.  He still looked a little peaked, but he was feeling a lot better.  He stopped at the milk house, and over the noise of his tractor, told my dad, 'One good turn deserves another, John.'"

Teary eyed herself now, Liv finished the story.  "I'm sure Daddy would have said more if he hadn't been so moved.  As it was, he just said, 'Much obliged, Jud.'  Then he turned to me and said, 'Livvie, tell your mama she's gonna have a lot of hungry men to feed and she better start lunch now if she plans to have it ready by noon.'  They had the barn filled by sundown and had to put the last two loads up in the wagon shed.  Then we had a good old fashioned barn dance."

She sighed happily, enjoying the pleasant memories.  "Later, when he came into my room to say good night, Daddy told me, 'Let today be a lesson to you, Livvie.  Always do the right thing, and when you need it, it will come back to you'."

Grinning now with the happy memory, Liv finally caught up with her runaway recollections and said, "I sort of got lost in my story, didn't I?  I was trying to explain all those little things about Emmy that made you think she was yours."

"You see," Keith finished his roundabout explanation, "all of Big John's people were just about larger than life, and Olivia is the only one of his kids who took after her mother's side.  All of her brothers were lefties, and the baby, Beth, was five feet eight inches tall by the time she was ten years old.  O is tiny, like her mother's folks.  She tells me she was the only baby her mother ever had that weighed less than ten pounds.  If she hadn't favored her daddy so much in looks, people might have started talking."  There was an awkward silence as Keith realized how close what he had said came to the present situation.  Finally, he finished lamely, "Anyway, that's where Emmy gets it from."

Leigh Ann sat cross-legged on the cot in her cell pouting.  That idiot husband of hers was going to get her a lawyer whether she wanted one or not.  She'd much rather go to jail than go home to the Pillsbury Doughboy.

The guard walked by her cell, slowly, and gave her a good once-over as he did.  Leigh Ann smiled.  _Now he looks like the kind of man who knows how to take charge of a situation._  She still had the tray that held her breakfast, now a sticky and congealed mass of syrupy pancakes and greasy sausages.  With an evil glint in her eye, she balanced it on one hand and waited for the guard to pass again.

"That really does explain a lot," Steve said quietly, "but how can you be sure she's not mine?"

"I just knew," Liv said, "but Keith wasn't so sure."  Liv turned to Maribeth and said hopefully, "You might not want to hear all of this."

Maribeth smiled back.  "I think what you mean is _you _might not want me to hear all of this," she said as she sat on the edge of the bed with her legs crossed, sipping coffee and munching a cookie, as relaxed as if she were in the living room having a gab session with Amanda and Katie Lynne.  Suddenly, she realized she hadn't seen her husband's friend and his best friend's wife on a social visit in quite some time, and decided that once they managed to get rid of the reporters, she would have to call them and invite them over.  Then she thought maybe she would wait until Emily was out of the woods so that Liv could join them.  "You've started telling the story, Liv.  It might be easier to finish it now than to wait."

"Mar," Steve warned.  He was still deeply troubled by what was happening himself, but he knew Liv had to be very worried about her daughter and didn't want Maribeth pushing her too hard.  

Shifting uncomfortably, knowing she had been caught fudging the truth, Liv said, "Can you blame me?"

"Look, Olivia," Maribeth said kindly, "I know you and my husband were lovers.  I also know that you are just friends now, and that he is as in love with me as you are with your husband.  I just want to get this all out in the open so we can move on.  I know we've had our ups and downs in the time you have been here, but I really hope when things are settled, that we can be friends, and I would hope you would be willing to confide in me, as a friend."

Liv recognized the olive branch for what it was, and nodded in agreement.  "Ok, I'll tell you all about it, and then maybe we can leave the past in the past, at least until the reporters start asking questions again."

Rolling her eyes, Maribeth said, "When did they ever stop?"

Liv made a quiet sound of agreement, and then, taking a deep breath, began her final explanation.  At first, she spoke very quietly and nervously, not sure Maribeth was as ready for the truth as she claimed to be.

"I was on the pill the whole time we were together, Steve.  I didn't approve of premarital sex then, and I still don't, but . . . but . . . "  

Liv snuck a look at Maribeth, and the woman seemed unfazed.  Searching for and failing to find a good way to frame her thoughts, she finally just said what was in her heart, and the words tumbled out of her.

"The way you treated me from the moment I woke up in your bed the day after we met.  I didn't even know your name, I could barely remember my own, and I held a gun to your head, threatened your life, and the next thing I know, you're bringing me breakfast in bed, and you were so sweet and sexy, and . . . "

Liv looked at Maribeth again.  She had expected the other woman to be upset, hurt, maybe even furious, and she was completely unprepared for the bemused, quizzical expression she saw instead.  Maribeth was looking back and forth from Steve to Liv, smiling slightly, and suddenly, Liv was intensely embarrassed.  Maribeth was actually _curious_ about her relationship with Steve.  Blushing furiously, she rushed on ahead.  Steve knew the details, she could get them from him!  

"Anyway, I knew I wouldn't be able to resist the temptation for long, and I saw no sense bringing a child into the world unless I knew I would have a husband to help me raise it.  At that time, though you assured me you would be there despite the terrible things in my past, you didn't know enough about me for me to be able to trust that promise.  So, I did the responsible thing and went on the pill less than a week after we met.  By the time we got together in December, I knew they had taken effect."

"You told me that the first time we made love, Liv.  Remember, I panicked because I . . . "  Steve glanced at his wife, and he too blushed to realize she was listening with avid interest.  "I had . . . forgotten . . . something," he finished lamely.  "So, if you were on the pill, Liv, why did Keith doubt that Emily was his child?"  Steve felt much more comfortable talking about Liv and Keith than he did talking about Liv and himself.

"Well, that takes a little more explaining, can you be patient?"

As long as Liv was willing to tell the story and save him the painful task of explaining intimate details that were all the more embarrassing because they were memories half a lifetime old, he would be pleased to let her do so.  Feeling very much like a coward for letting Liv bear the burden of reliving all their personal, private details for Maribeth's benefit, he nodded and let her continue.

As the guard walked past her, Leigh Ann hurled her tray at him.  Pancakes and sausages rained down on him.  Cursing and shouting, he advanced toward the bars, and pulling out his nightstick, he rattled it across her cage.  His anger excited her, and she stood in her cell, just beyond his reach, feet spread wide, hands on her hips, taunting him.

"Come one, big boy, get in here and show me what that stick of yours is really good for!"

"Officer Braden," a voice snapped from the end of the corridor, and the big man froze.  "Go get yourself cleaned up."

As Braden trundled off, Leigh Ann dropped onto her cot and moaned in despair.  "Noooo.  He's a nobody.  He's just following orders, like everybody else."

"I had a remarkably easy pregnancy," Liv began.  "No morning sickness, no swollen ankles, nothing.  In fact, I didn't know I was even pregnant until the end of April.  I was just wondering why I was suddenly developing a spare tire."

"Didn't you notice you'd missed your cycle?" Maribeth asked.

Liv shook her head.  "No, I never really tracked it, and I was always so small, that sometimes I could go 2 or 3 months at a time without one, and not think twice about it, even on the pill."

"Is that possible?" Steve asked, realizing that if the answer was no, he had to be Emily's father, no matter what Liv 'knew'.

"Oh, yeah," Maribeth answered.  "You have to have a certain percentage of body fat to even have a cycle.  If she was always as thin as she is now, it was hit and miss at best."  Maribeth couldn't hide the jealousy when she talked about Liv's slim figure.  She could spend hours a day in the gym and never be so lean.

Liv blushed slightly, both at Maribeth's candor and her jealous tone, and continued.  "Anyway, except for the slowly inflating basketball that appeared to be hiding under my shirt and the frequent desperate sprints to the bathroom, no one would guess that I was pregnant."

There was no missing the disgusted look that crossed Maribeth's face.  With both Steven and the little girl they had lost, she had been miserably sick seemingly since the moment of conception.  Once, in her second trimester with Steven, she had ended up a patient in her own hospital suffering dehydration from her frequent bouts of nausea.  Probably because of her exhaustion and illness, she had often been overly emotional, completely disinterested in any kind of romance, let alone sex, and had on one occasion when Steve had tried a romantic overture, shoved him off the bed, shouting, "Leave me alone!  I do not feel sexy, I feel like a whale!"  

Steve had lain, uncomplaining, on the floor for a few minutes, reluctant to show his face until he had worked out an apology, in the hopes of avoiding banishment to the spare bedroom, but the exertion had exhausted Maribeth so that, by the time he was ready to deliver his placating words, she had fallen asleep, stretched diagonally across the bed, taking up most of his side as well as her own.  Risking a kiss goodnight, he had been socked in the eye when she lashed out blindly in her sleep.  Knowing no apology could appease her now, because it would require waking her, he had taken his pillow and trundled silently off to sleep, alone.  

The next morning, when Maribeth had inquired about the cause of his shiner, she had at first refused to believe it was her handiwork.  Once Steve had managed to convince her that she had indeed punched him in the eye after pushing him out of bed, she had become so remorseful that it had taken him a good hour to get her to stop crying long enough to tell him why she was so upset.  Even then, all she could manage was, "I'm as big as a house, and cranky all the time, and you're still interested.  I love you!"  The swelling in Steve's eye went down by the end of the next day, but the bruising lasted over a week.  

Noting Maribeth's dour look but choosing not to comment, Liv just went on with her story.

"We were a little surprised when the baby started moving near the end of June."  

Liv heard Maribeth's surprised gasp, and saw her start counting on her fingers immediately.  She knew she was counting the months.

"But Liv," she whispered, "that's only four months."

"Closer to four and a half," Liv said.

"So?  What?  What's that mean?"  Steve knew the information was momentous, but he had no idea why.

"Because the baby usually doesn't quicken until the fifth or sixth month."

Steve grew pensive, then said, "So, she was moving too early for her to be Keith's, but you say you're sure she is.  How?"

Liv never answered his question.  She just continued her story.  "My OB, Calum MacGregor was a young Scotsman, a visiting specialist at our hospital.  He was a big, burly fellow, but very gentle and kind, and I remember at my next appointment when we told him she was moving, he laughed and said, 'Aye.  It doesn't surprise me.  Your littlun is gonna be a bigun.'"

"Liv, please," Steve pleaded, "how do you know?"

She looked at him kindly and said, "Steve, let me tell you the story my way.  It's important, I promise."

All it took was those two little words, _I promise_,and Steve acquiesced.

"Since Calum wasn't at all concerned that the baby was moving early, Keith and I never gave it a second thought, or at least _I _never did.  I didn't know Keith was asking questions."

"So he thought Emily could be Steve's, baby didn't he?"

"Yes, he did, Maribeth," Liv said candidly, "He spoke to Calum, without my knowing.  He asked about the due date and the size of the baby.  I found out about it when I had my five-month checkup.  Keith had to work that day, and at the end of the visit, Calum gave me an image from the ultrasound and said, 'Tell that hoosbund of yours that his wee lass is dooin' just fine, and he needn't be callin' me with questions every week.  She is a tad bit big for her age, but that's a good sign she's healthy.  When he gets worried, he kin look at that picture and know all is right with the world.'"

"So the doctor didn't know about you and Keith and Steve?" Maribeth asked.

"No, no he didn't," Liv said.  "He hadn't even moved to the area until after we got back from our honeymoon.  Right away, I knew what was on Keith's mind, and I went straight to the sheriff's office and confronted him about it.  It was a stupid thing to do because we never settled anything.  He took me into one of the interrogation rooms and started questioning me, trying to pinpoint the date of Emily's conception, and all of a sudden, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a period.  I knew there hadn't been one in February, and I attributed that to the stress of the situation with Ted and then to getting pregnant.  There hadn't been one in January, but that had been an incredibly stressful time for me, too."

"What?"  Her statement surprised Steve.  "Liv as I remember it, we spent a lot of time together in the weeks before you took me back east.  I thought we had a good time."

"Oh, Steve, we did," she reassured him, "but when I was alone, when you weren't around to comfort me, I kept wondering what I would do if you decided I had too much baggage and changed your mind about marrying me.  I-I guess, in a way, that is exactly what you did, but until the wedding, I couldn't imagine what I would do without you."

"Liv, I'm sorry," Steve said.  "I never knew."

"That's ok, I didn't want you to.  So that took me back to December and the first time we made love.  I thought I had had a cycle then, but I couldn't remember if it was before or after that night."

"So, you did think that she might be mine, didn't you?" Steve asked softly.

"No, I didn't.  I wasn't in denial, though I can understand if you don't believe me.  I just knew she was my husband's child.  There was no doubt in my mind.  I could feel it, like my own heartbeat, and I knew she was Keith's."

"But Keith didn't share your certainty, did he?" Maribeth asked.

"No, he didn't," Liv said regretfully, "but I couldn't blame him for that.  The timing _was _awfully suspicious."  She started to tear up as she continued to talk.  "It didn't hurt that he thought she was Steve's baby, that was only natural.  She wasn't inside him, he couldn't know like I did.  What hurt was when I found out that he thought I knew I was pregnant with Steve's baby when I married him."

"Lieutenant Emily Stephens' parents have apparently left her alone at the hospital under the care of Dr. Alex Martin, an old friend of Deputy Chief Sloan.  Keith and Olivia Stephens were seen entering the Sloan family's Malibu beach house around nine o'clock this morning," the reporter droned on, "and they have been there ever since.  There is still no word on the whereabouts of either Deputy Chief Sloan or Mr. Giancarlo Moretti, the man Sloan and Lieutenant Stephens allegedly conspired to kidnap."

Moretti sighed and cursed the reporter, but didn't turn the radio off.  He was in the kitchen, making a marinade for the chicken he was going to cook on the hibachi for lunch.  The radio was on, and every twenty minutes, the news came on.  Emily and Deputy Chief Sloan were still the top story.

Moretti had added the little Japanese-style indoor grill to his grocery list as a joke, never expecting Al to actually purchase one, but now that he had it, he planned to make good use of it.  As he added some red pepper flakes to his marinade, Moretti became aware that he was not alone in the room any more.  He turned his head slightly, and caught a glimpse of his son out of the corner of his eye.

He wanted desperately to talk with Al, but he knew his son would not be impressed with a desperate old mobster, so he continued making his marinade and asked, "Ya need somethin'?"

Al was quiet for a long while, and Moretti was afraid he would just walk away, but then he heard a chair being pulled out from under the kitchen table, and with a sigh, Al sat down and said, "I need to know about you and my mother."

"I eventually went to my mom with my concerns," Keith said.  "She is . . . well, was, she died about a year ago . . . great about giving good advice.  I trusted her with all my problems, until I married Olivia, and even then, if the problem I was having was with O, I talked to Mom."

"Let me guess," Mark said grinning, "she told you to talk to Liv."

"Yes, sir, how did you know?"

"I would have done the same."

Keith smiled.  "I'm not surprised.  I suppose you also would have told me that, even if Emily turned out to be Steve's baby, I had to love her as my own, because there was absolutely no way Olivia would have married me knowing the child's father was another man who was also eager to marry her."

"And I would have told you that if Steve happened to be Emily's biological father, they had a right to know each other."

"I am sure you would have," Keith said, smiling, "because that's exactly what Mom said, too."

"So, you and Liv just made up and that was it?" Steven was incredulous.

"Oh, son, I wish it had been that easy."

"September sixteenth was a crummy weather day," Liv began, speaking of the day Emily was born.  "It started out cold, windy, and rainy, and it was supposed to get colder after lunch.  We were expected to get snow, sleet, or freezing rain by mid afternoon."

Liv made a face as if recalling unpleasant memories, and said, "I suppose, when I woke up feeling ill, I should have realized something was up.  I wasn't really sick, just tired and achy, and a little nauseous, and since Keith was just heading back to work after a bout with the flu, I thought it was about to be my turn.  I would drink lots of fluids and take something for the fever I was bound to get and I would be fine.  I was worried about Keith driving in the slop that we were supposed to get that afternoon, but I was mostly just grateful that he was going into town so I could e-mail him a grocery list at work, and I wouldn't have go shopping myself."

"That's not what happened, though, is it?" Steve asked.

Liv shook her head, "Not a chance.  Sometimes, I wonder why there has to be so much drama in my life.  Something potentially disastrous seems to happen every decade."  

She gave a slightly bitter smile and continued, "Anyway, after Keith went off to work, I laid back down for a while.  It turned out to be a long while, and when I finally woke up around two thirty in the afternoon, the sky was the color of wet slate and sleet was rattling against the windows.

"I once read somewhere that there is a slight spike in the number of births during storms.  Some people think it's the drop in barometric pressure.  I remember thinking that when the first contraction knocked me to my knees before I was halfway to the bathroom.  I knew better than to stand up and walk to the phone, so I crawled.  I wanted to cry when I finally got there and there was no dial tone.  The phone lines had iced up and snapped."

"What did you do?" Maribeth asked.  She remembered what a comfort Steve was from the moment she went into labor.  He had been at her side the entire time, and when she thought she had nothing left to give, he cheered her on until their son came into the world.  As a doctor, she had an intellectual understanding of what went on during labor and delivery, but when the pains started, she was still scared, and she couldn't imagine having to go through the whole ordeal on her own, during a storm, having no contact with the rest of the world.

"I crawled back across the room to my jacket to retrieve my cell phone," Liv said, "but when my belly eclipsed my feet, I had quit traveling alone.  I was just too afraid I might have a flat or something and be stranded.  So, I hadn't needed it in a long while, and it wasn't charged."

"Oh, God, Liv," Maribeth gasped in horror as Steve listened intently to her story.

Grinning wryly, Liv replied, "That's what I said, and a few other things, too.  Eventually, I made it down the stairs and out to the jeep.  I don't know why I didn't just go down the road to the Yarborough's house and ask someone there to drive me to the hospital.  I guess I panicked.  I knew it was too soon, and my baby needed to be born in the hospital.  Then another contraction hit, and I was down in a ravine."

"She never said anything," Al told Moretti, "but I think she always loved you."

"Yeah?"

"There were a couple of guys who wanted to marry her, didn't mind that she had a kid, but she turned them down.  I never understood why.  All I can figure is that she was still carrying a torch for you."

"How do you feel about that?"

"I don't know yet," Al said, and he got up from the table and walked out of the room.

"Emily was born in the jeep," Keith said, "in a ravine along the road between our house and Punx'y.  She was seventeen and a half inches long and weighed just under four and a half pounds.  On the small side, yes, but definitely very healthy for a baby that was thirteen weeks early."

"Wow," Mark said, impressed, "she was a big baby for being so young."

Keith nodded, and said, "Like I told you, she gets it from Big John.  The only real indication that she was premature was that her lungs were slightly underdeveloped.  She would have been fine if she had been born in a hospital."

"So, Liv delivered her on her own, out in the middle of nowhere?" Steven asked, incredulous.

"Uh-huh," Keith said.  "I asked her why she didn't go to the neighbors, and to this day, she swears she just panicked, but I still think she didn't want to impose.  She's always had a very hard time asking for help.  Whatever the reason, though, it almost killed Emily and Olivia."

"You had a CB in the jeep, Liv," Steve remembered.  "Why didn't you use that?"

"It had blown a fuse weeks before, and, just like with the cell phone, since I had quit traveling by myself, I just didn't bother to replace it."

"Sounds like events were conspiring against you," Maribeth said.

Liv nodded, "I guess that is one way to look at it.  I always just thought it was carelessness.  Between the telephone, the cell phone, and the CB, I never should have been cut off from the world like that."

Knowing Liv's propensity to feel guilty over things that were really nobody's fault, Steve interrupted her train of thought before she could go too far with it.  "But it did happen, Liv, and you survived it.  So did Emily."

Liv smiled softly, and said, "Just barely."

After his confrontation with Al Cioffi, Ron had found he could not sleep, so he was laying on the bed in the back room of the safe house watching the news on a little thirteen-inch TV, trying to force his body, if not his mind, to get some rest.

"Dan," Jonas said excitedly from his place in front of Valley Bureau Headquarters, "hold on a minute.  I see Captain Malcolm Paige from the Internal Affairs Division is leaving the building."  Turning his magnificent Roman profile to the camera, the handsome young man called out, his voice cutting across the other reporters, "Captain Paige!  Are you on your way to arrest Deputy Chief Sloan in connection to the Moretti kidnapping or the Stephens shooting or some other charge connected with the evidence seized at the apartment of the late Roger Gorini?"

Paige turned to the camera, and for just a moment, he looked like a deer caught in the headlights, then his eyes hardened and his expression darkened.  "Right now, I am just on my way to question him, Mr. Monroe.  So far, the only thing he appears to be guilty of is a lapse in judgment in hiring Leigh Ann Bergman."

"But Captain," Jonas shouted his question to be heard above the rabble, "have you heard the tape?"

"Yes, I have," Paige replied, "and that is not a criminal matter.  That is an issue to be resolved between the two families.  Now, if the lot of you don't clear the way, I will have you all charged with blocking access to a public building."

As he watched the news in horror, Ron put his head in his hands and muttered, "Paige, that was a _stupid _thing to say."

"There you have it, Dan," Jonas said, smiling smugly at the camera.  "The LAPD is trying to prevent coverage of this story by threatening the press with prosecution."  Turning his profile to the camera, Jonas shouted to the policeman again, "What are you hiding, Captain Paige?"

"I hadn't even realize I passed them on the way home," Keith said.  "There are a few bad spots along that winding old road, places where you can run off the road and over the bank into the woods, and never be spotted until someone goes looking for you, and it was just one of those place where O and Emily wound up."

"How long were they there?" Steven asked.

"About four and a half hours," Keith said.  "Olivia figures she left for the hospital around two forty-five, and the way the roads were, it had probably taken her half an hour to get as far as she did.  It was quarter past six when I got home and realized she had left, and going on eight when we found them.  They were both hypothermic.  Olivia had been bleeding slowly for a while and she was deathly pale.  Emily . . . " Keith voice caught in his throat, "They said Emily was blue and having trouble breathing.  I don't know because I hadn't seen her yet, just the car, and Liv when the paramedics brought her up."

"Her lungs weren't yet fully developed," Mark said, "and if it was cold, the air temperature was probably an additional stress."

"That's what the doctor told me."  Keith fell silent for a long time.  When he finally spoke again, his voice was soft and reverent.  "They were both deeply comatose for three days.  The doctors had begun asking me about organ donation, but I kept putting them off.  I stayed with Olivia the whole time, never went to see the baby."

He looked up to see both Mark and Steven silently judging him.  He didn't blame them.  He'd done a horrible thing, and he knew it.  The best he could hope for was to make them understand why he'd behaved as he had.

"I was expecting to lose my wife," he explained, "and as far as I knew, she had been carrying another man's child the day we were married.  I didn't hate the baby.  I just didn't feel anything toward her . . . no sense of responsibility . . . and certainly no love . . . "  Keith had begun to choke up again, and, ashamed of himself, he finally fell silent.

"I was alone when I finally woke up," Liv said.  "I found out later a nurse had come in to give me a bed-bath and she had sent Keith out of the room.  He'd wandered off to the maternity ward, and eventually ended up outside the NICU."

"…where one of the nurses recognized me and the next thing I knew, I was inside, wearing scrubs and one of those shower-cap looking things to cover my hair.  She asked if I wanted to hold . . . my daughter . . . I didn't say she wasn't mine, and I didn't say no, but I didn't say yes, either."

Keith blinked his eyes rapidly against the sting of tears.  He hadn't intended to tell Steven and Mark quite so much of the truth, but now that he'd started the story, he couldn't bear to leave any of it out.  

"The nurse left me alone after a little while, and I just stood there, feeling useless, and wishing I was with my wife.  Then, almost against my will and definitely against my better judgment, I looked down at that tiny little creature in the incubator."

His breathing grew rapid and his words became stilted as he struggled to talk past the emotions that could still overwhelm him after all these years.  He looked up, and saw Mark and Steven listening sympathetically.  Heartened that they had not judged him too harshly, he made the effort to continue.

"There was an IV in her scalp, a feeding tube up her nose, and a respirator tube down her throat, and she was red and wrinkled and just looked so . . . so pitiful, so miserable, and I knew if we lost Liv, she would have no one to love her."

Keith's tears began to flow freely as he remembered the moment he first met his daughter.  

"That's when I knew, whether she was my blood or not, she _was_ my daughter because God had entrusted her to me and my wife.  It didn't matter whose DNA she carried, she was _mine_, and it was my job to love her and teach her and give her everything she needed to have a happy, healthy life.

"All of a sudden, I just had to touch her.  The nurse had made me scrub before I went into the NICU, so I just reached into the incubator and ran a finger along a blue vein I saw twitching in her scalp.  Then I stroked her cheek, and she turned toward me."

Steven smiled.  "Rooting reflex.  All babies do it.  She was looking for a meal."

Keith nodded.  "So I've been told," he said.  "Then, she opened her eyes and looked at me.  Here eyes weren't the color they are now.  They were just blue.  The nurse brought me a chair so I could sit beside her.  I stayed there a long time, hours, I suppose, and we just looked into one another's eyes and got to know each other.  I touched her little arms and her legs and her feet, and when I put my finger in her palm, her tiny little fingers squeezed it.  Eventually, she fell asleep again, and then I talked to the nurse about putting a proper name on the chart at the end of her incubator.  Then I went back to my wife."

Ron took out his secure cell phone and placed a call.  "Cheryl, it's Ron.  Have you been watching the news?"

"Yeah, I have, listening to it, actually, on the radio.  How are you and Al holding up?"

"We're doing ok," he replied, "but they're assassinating Steve.  Do you think you and Tim could step on it?  I need to get back to LA."

"I thought you might.  We left early.  We're halfway there now."

Ron grinned into the phone, "Cheryl, I think I love you."

"Ok.  Just don't tell your wife."

After closing her phone, Cheryl looked across the car to Tim Brown.  "I told you he'd be glad we left early.  He says he thinks he loves me for it."

"Well, I guess we did the right thing, then," Tim said, smiling.  Cheryl never noticed that he seemed a bit too pleased with the news.

"The next time I woke up, Keith was there, telling me Emily was doing better.  I was sort of confused, and I just asked, 'Who?' and he laughed and told me I sounded like an owl.  Then he said, 'Our daughter, Olivia.  We did agree to call her Emily, right?'  I knew then that everything would be ok.  I hadn't realized until I found out he thought she was yours that he had always called her 'the baby' or 'it'.  To hear him finally say, 'our daughter', well, to this day, I don't know what happened, but when he came back from visiting Emily for the first time, there was a look of peace and contentment and pride about him.  I still see it, every time he looks at Em or talks to her or about her.  I can even tell when he is just thinking of her."

"I know what you mean, Liv," Maribeth said.  "Steve is the same way."  
  


"I am?"

"You are!"  Maribeth laughed and said, "You are absolutely in love with your child."

"Well, he's a good kid," Steve said defensively, a bit annoyed at being laughed at.  "I'm proud of him."

"I know," Maribeth agreed, "and so does anyone else who has ever heard you talk about him or seen you with him."

When Steve continued to look disgruntled, Maribeth said, "Oh, don't pout.  If it's any consolation, your dad does the very same thing where you're concerned.  He just lights up when you come into the room."

Surprised, Steve couldn't stop himself from asking, "Really?"

"Yes, really.  He's very proud of you, and loves you more than anything."

Steve smiled, genuinely happy for the first time in days at the thought that even after all these years he was still his father's pride and joy.  Then the smile faded.  "I wonder if he'll still feel that way when the press is through with all of us."

"Steve, stop it," Maribeth said.  "You know he will, and you know you haven't done anything wrong."

"I suppose," Steve said noncommittally.  

"Don't suppose!  You know it's true," Liv added.

Steve didn't reply, and for a while, the three friends sat in silence.  Finally, Steve waded out of the mire of black thoughts that had begun sucking him down again and said, "Liv?  Would you finish your story please?  What happened next?"

"Keith waited a couple of days until I was stronger, then he took his mother's advice and had a talk with me about Emily."

Ron peeked into the kitchen, hating to interrupt, but needing to talk to Al and Moretti.

"Guys?" he said softly, and when they both turned to see him, he could tell the conversation had been going.  He wasn't sure it had been going well, but at least they had been talking.

"The press coverage is getting really bad," he said, "and Malcolm Paige just said some really stupid things.  I need to get back to LA and do some damage control.  Cheryl and Tim figured that would happen, so they started out early.  They'll be here in about an hour.  I just wanted you to know."

"What did Paige say?" Al asked, already dreading the answer.

"Not much, he just questioned Steve's judgment and threatened to arrest some reporters."

Al rubbed his temples and looked up at Ron, amazed at his colleague's idiocy.  "You know, most of the cops I know would hate Malcolm Paige even if he weren't IAD, he's that damned dumb."

"We decided that once Emily was stronger, we would have a paternity test," Keith said.  "At first, Olivia still insisted that she _knew_ Em was my child, and that should be enough, but eventually, I got her to accept that I needed more than just a mother's instinct.  I loved Emily, and in my heart, it didn't matter who her dad was, but for medical reasons, and in fairness to Emmy and Steve, I felt we had to run the test.  Finally, O agreed.

"If Steve was Emily's father, we would contact him, if not, he didn't need to know about our problems," Keith became pensive a moment before explaining their reasoning.  "Olivia thought if we told him about the problems we'd been having, he might feel responsible.  At the time, I thought that was ridiculous, but after seeing him these past few weeks . . . he has a tendency to take the weight of the world on his shoulders, doesn't he?"

Mark chuckled slightly, and said, "That he does.  We've been trying for years, but we just can't get him to break that habit."

"Well," Keith took up the story again, "I promised O that, if Steve were Emily's biological father, I would never try to prevent them from seeing and getting to know each other.  But by then, in my heart I was Emily's daddy, and I made O promise she would make sure Steve understood that before he ever came to visit."

"We did the paternity test about a month later," Liv said.  "It was the last test they did before they sent Emmy home.  I'd done a little research on the Internet and found a lab in Missouri that guaranteed the accuracy of their results up to 99.99%.  Keith was on pins and needles for the next two weeks.  He felt like Emmy's dad by then, and he desperately wanted it to be biological fact."

Steve smiled.  "I imagine so.  Becoming a dad was the best thing that ever happened to me."

Maribeth looked at him, mock surprise on her face, "I thought I was the best thing that ever happened to you."

He smiled and kissed her on the nose.  "You were until Steven came along," he said, "now, you are a very close second."

She pretended to think it over for a bit, then nodded, and said, "I can live with that, as long as you understand that I feel the same way about you."

"I never doubted it."

"When the letter finally came, I couldn't open it," Keith was finishing up his story, and was surprised to find he had been talking for over an hour.  "I know Olivia saw it on the table with the other mail, but she left it alone for two days.  Finally, she came to me one night before bed.  I was sitting in front of the fireplace in our bedroom, holding Emily and soaking up the warmth.  She took Emily from me and put her in the cradle on the bear rug, then she came and sat on my lap.

"She turned to me, kissed me, ran her fingers through my hair, then she took the letter out of the pocket of her robe, and my heart sank.  She didn't let that last for long, though.  'It doesn't matter what this says,' she told me.  'We are a family, you, Emmy, and I, because we are bound by love.  Blood doesn't matter.'"

Keith took a deep breath and smiled, "I knew she was right, but I really wanted that letter to say Emily was biologically mine.  Olivia tore open the envelope, read the results, and well, we cried together."

Mark gasped.  Steven said, "Oh, dear God, no."

Keith said, "Huh?  What?  No!  No, guys, we cried with relief.  I am Emmy's dad.  The test was conclusive to 99.99% certainty.  She is not Steve's daughter."

"We cried together when we read the results," Liv said.

"Liv?"  Steve questioned, confused.

"I thought you said she wasn't his," Maribeth snapped.

Blithely oblivious to their concern, Olivia continued, "We knew nothing would ever come between us, and I knew Steve wouldn't have caused problems if she were his, but it was such a relief to have the proof that Keith was her father in every sense of the word."

Liv looked up to see Steve and Maribeth holding hands, looking bewildered and relieved all at once, and she thought back over what she had said.  "Oh, goodness.  I'm so sorry, guys.  I guess I put that rather badly, didn't I."

"Damned right, you did," Maribeth told her, but when Liv lowered her head contritely, she added, "It's ok, though.  It was just a bit of a worry at first, because you'd already said Steve wasn't her father.  Why didn't you just tell us you had a paternity test?"

Olivia answered Maribeth's question, but she spoke to Steve.  "Twice at the hospital, Steve, you gave me the chance to tell you this, but I was so worried about Emily, I couldn't.  I needed you to understand what Keith and I went through, what kinds of emotions surrounded the issue.  I needed you to know that I wasn't just being cruel by refusing to tell you."

She began to get teary again, and her voice choked up as she finished her speech.  "I couldn't talk about it yesterday because with Emily in such bad shape, I couldn't afford to fall apart.  If she had died while I was curled up in a ball somewhere feeling sorry for myself . . . "

Liv couldn't complete the thought, and Maribeth didn't let her.  "She didn't Liv, and she won't."

"But Maribeth . . . "

"No, no buts.  Just believe, that's all you can do."

Olivia nodded resolutely.  "Ok."  Taking a deep, calming breath, she said, "Now, has anyone in this house had breakfast?"  Looking down at her watch, she said, "Or would you rather I started lunch?"

"So, Steven," Keith said, "you and Emmy are safe to do as you wish, though I should warn you that her mother will probably have some words for both of you about cohabitation as soon as Emily is strong enough to argue with her."

Keith couldn't resist a grin as he saw the horrified blush stain Steven's cheeks while Mark laughed at him.

"Now, why don't you two freshen up, get showered, whatever, while I go upstairs and start something for lunch?"

It was getting close to lunch time, and though Moretti's _I just can't call him my dad_ grilled chicken smelled wonderful Al knew he needed to get home to his wife and have a serious talk with his son about following procedures.  So, when Commander Banks called on the secure cell phone to say they were ten minutes out of Barstow, he stepped into the bedroom to wake Agent Wagner and pack the few things he had brought with him.  When he was sure Wagner was fully awake, he took his overnight bag out into the living room and sat it by the door and then went into the kitchen to say goodbye to Moretti.

"So, I guess this is it, huh?" Moretti said.  "You're goin' back to LA and leavin' me here with strangers."

"Twenty four hours ago, you only knew me by name."

"Yeah, but you're my . . . "

"Don't call me that.  Not yet," Al interrupted.  "I still don't know what I am to you."

After a silent moment, Moretti nodded.  "Ok, but can ya tell me one thing?"

"I'll try."

"Tell me ya don't hate me."

"Mr. Moretti," Al felt bad to see the old man flinch at the formal address, "I don't know you well enough to hate you."

"I'll load the car," Al heard Agent Wagner call from the other room.  "You secure the house."

Grateful for the chance to escape, Al called, "I'm on it," and he left to go take care of his responsibilities.

"Hey, babe," Liv said upon meeting her husband in the kitchen after telling Steve and Maribeth all about her pregnancy and Emily's birth.  "Are youuuu ok?" she yawned, suddenly feeling the fatigue that had been building for hours now.

Keith nodded, "Fine, I guess.  You?"  

"Aiii ok," Liv managed around an enormous yawn.

Keith was concerned that his wife looked so terribly tired, and he couldn't believe it had been just over twenty-four hours ago that he had tossed her now very rumpled navy blue suit in her lap and told her to 'can the histrionics'.  Feeling deeply ashamed, he said, "Why don't you go catch forty winks while I make everybody some lunch?  Then you can freshen up and we can get back to the hospital to see Em."

Liv gave his offer some thought.  She knew if she didn't rest soon, she would collapse, and then she would be no good to anybody, but she couldn't bear the thought of her baby being all alone and hurting in the hospital.  _Alex is a nice enough guy, but he's a stranger to her._  Finally, she shook her head, and stumbled sideways into the refrigerator as she lost her balance, saying, "Nah, I think we ooood yust trowwww . . . " she yawned again, " . . . together a quick lunch and go back to the hospital straight awayyyy."

Steadying her and smiling indulgently, Keith said, "Sweetheart, if you don't lie down soon, you're going to fall down.  Tell you what, we'll fix lunch together, and, since I slept some in Em's room last night, I will take a sandwich with me and go back to the hospital.  You get some sleep and then ride in with Maribeth or Steven or whoever is coming in, and spell me.  We'll take it in turns like that until we know she's out of the woods, ok?"

Liv nodded slightly, and stumbled forward, into her husband's arms.  Her voice was muffled against his chest when she spoke.  "S'long 's you don't 'spect me to use a knife whaahhhl weeee fix lunch, that should worrrrr . . . "

She was asleep standing up, safe in her husband's arms, before she could finish speaking.  With a small chuckle, Keith lifted her up, and grateful for the high-tech prosthetics that afforded him the balance he needed to carry his wife in his arms, he took her back to the spare room the Maribeth had made comfortable for them and tucked her into the bed.

Keith was very proud of his wife.  She had been so strong, for so long _No thanks to you_ and she had earned her rest.  Now that the worst of their crisis seemed to be over, he knew she would sleep soundly for a few hours, and then wake up, demanding a ride to the hospital where she would again be his strength and Emily's.

Keith quickly slapped together some sandwiches and put out a bowl of fruit for lunch, then he dashed off a note asking them to wake Olivia and give her a ride to the hospital whenever one of them was ready to come in.  Then he slipped out the front door without even saying goodbye and gradually nudged the car through the swelling crowd of reporters.  He was so anxious to get back to the hospital that he ran a red light at the end of the block and was certain the police car he saw drawing up to the intersection would pull him over, but when the black and white turned toward the beach house, he breathed a sigh of relief and hoped the officer had been sent to make the press disburse.

The chicken was just about done when Agent Brown and Commander Banks drove up to the safe house.  Moretti spotted them through the sheer curtains over the kitchen sink as he was wrapping foil over the plates he had prepared for Agent Wagner and his son.  _Call him Al, he doesn't want to be your son yet._

There'd been a thermos in the cupboard when they arrived, and he turned to fill it with hot, black coffee when he heard a thump, a grunt, and a thud.  He moved back to the window to peer out from behind the curtains, and saw Agent Brown dragging Commander Banks out of sight behind the car.  Before he could call out a warning, Agent Wagner appeared in the driveway to greet his colleague, who turned on him with a weapon.  Moretti heard a soft pop, and Wagner went down.

The gun Wagner had given him was on the table in the living room.  Moretti broke into a cold sweat when he realized there was no way he could get to it before Brown entered the house.  Taking a large cast iron skillet from a hook on the wall, he hid behind the kitchen door and peeked through the crack on the hinged side, watching and waiting.

Moretti's heart wedged in his throat as Brown came into the living room and looked in his direction, but it settled right back down when the young man turned the other direction and headed for the bedroom.  He knew Al was in the bathroom, checking the lock on the window, securing the place according to FBI standard operating procedure upon entering or leaving a safe house, and he knew, with Brown coming up behind him, he wouldn't have a chance.

Carrying the skillet with him, Moretti slipped out to the living room.  Silently, he put the pan down on the couch and, carefully, he picked up Agent Wagner's gun.  Not making a sound, he crept through the house, stalking Brown.

"We thought you might be the last leak," Moretti heard Al say, and knew it was a lie.  "Moretti isn't here.  He's somewhere safe that you can't find him."

"I don't believe that," Brown said, "you don't have enough people left to trust to hide him somewhere else."

"Suit yourself," Al said, as he eyed the gun that was trained on him, weighing his chances of getting to it before he was killed.

"That's it?" Brown said, disbelieving.  "No argument, no fight, no story about why he couldn't possibly be here?"

"Nope," Al grinned, "no point."

"What?  Why?"

Al's grin widened and he said, "Because he's right behind you."

"Oh, now that is about the lamest . . . " Brown trailed off as he felt the cold steel muzzle of a gun pressed to the base of his skull.

"He knocked out Banks and shot Wagner," Moretti said as Al cuffed Brown to the drainpipe under the sink.

"Stay inside and pack your stuff.  I'm gonna check on them and call 911, and then we're outta here."

"Where are we gonna go?"

"I dunno yet," Al said, "but in three minutes, we're gone."

As Steve emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in his warm terrycloth robe, silver hair still dripping from the shower, Maribeth walked toward him.  When they were close enough to touch, he looked her in the eye, and smiled almost shyly.  She smiled back, and said, "I love you, Steve Sloan."

He pulled her close, in a gentle, loving hug, and said, "I know you do, Mar.  I've never doubted it.  It's what has given me the strength all these years to do what I do.  I'll never be able to thank you enough."

She snuggled closer, rested her head against his shoulder, inhaled his clean, masculine scent, and sighed.  It felt so good to be wrapped in his embrace.  No matter what chaos swirled around them, in the circle of his arms, she was safe.  "You don't need to thank me, sweetheart, I couldn't stop myself if I wanted to, and I don't, not ever."

The cloud of dread surrounding the Sloan household began to lift then, but it did not drift away yet.  Everyone inside the beach house knew there would be dark and difficult days ahead, but with the security born of finally knowing the truth, they were ready to face whatever else the world threw at them.


	28. Meet the Press

**(Chapter 28.  Beach house, safe house, CGH.  March 29, 2033.)**

Maribeth sat and watched her husband pick at his lunch.  He wasn't eating much, but as long as he was eating something, she wouldn't press him about it.  An anonymous source had called them from the precinct to tell them Malcolm Paige was on his way to question Steve, and they had decided then to watch the noon news to see what was being said.  Captain Paige was a political animal, and Steve was certain his questions would be tailored to meet the insatiable curiosity of the press.  A few judicious leaks, and Paige would be their hero of the day.

"My God, what are they saying?" Steve murmured as Jonas Monroe again presented his conspiracy theory.

"Steve," his dad said, "you know it's nothing more than sensationalism.  They just want a juicy story, and if the truth gets in the way, they'll overlook it."

"I know, Dad, but the way he's going on, by six o'clock he's going to hang Jimmy Hoffa's disappearance around my neck, too."

"Who?" Steven inquired, only half paying attention as he peered at the television.  He knew what he was hearing and seeing was a pack of lies, but he couldn't turn away.  It was just too fascinating to watch the media vultures twist the truth.

"Oh, now, Steve," Maribeth tried to soothe him.  "That's been what, sixty years ago?  And he disappeared in Michigan."

"I don't think that will matter to these people, Mar."

"Who's Jimmy Hoffa?" Steven inquired insistently, surprising everyone with the fact that he had actually been listening.

"He was a Teamster's Union Leader," Maribeth said.  "Vanished without a trace back in the 1970's."

Steven looked at his father, "Dad, you were just a kid then, and didn't have the influence to make someone vanish if you wanted to.  Quit exaggerating."

"It's called hyperbole, son," Steve said sourly.  "I am making a point through exaggeration."

"I know that, Dad," the younger Sloan responded, "but whenever you do that, you always end up believing your worst case scenarios can actually happen, and that's no good for a man your age."

Maribeth and Mark had to stifle their laughter as Steve began to grumble about 'kids these days'.  It seemed odd to be laughing and teasing when their world was crumbling around them, but it felt good, too, and humor in the face of adversity had seen them through many hard times.  Perhaps it would do so again.

Cheryl came to with a moan as she felt someone exploring the painful knot on the back of her head with gentle fingers.  After a moment, she opened her eyes and looked on a spinning world to see a gravely ill Ron Wagner being loaded into an ambulance.  She saw no sign of Moretti or Al Cioffi, but Tim Brown was being put into the back of a police cruiser, his hands cuffed behind his back.

"Wait," she croaked to the paramedic who was treating her.  "I need to speak to the officer in charge here."

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the paramedic said, "but you should be going to the hospital.  Let them check you out first.  The police will be by later to take your statement."

"I am Commander Cheryl Banks, LAPD," she introduced herself as the paramedic shined a light in her eyes and his partner took her blood pressure, "and I have been temporarily assigned to a case with the FBI.  The man they just put into the other ambulance is a friend of mine, FBI Special Agent in Charge of Missing Persons Investigations, Ron Wagner, and the one in the cruiser is . . . well was, until he bashed me in the head, my partner on this assignment, Agent Tim Brown.  There should have been two other men here.  Now, I know I need medical attention, and I will cooperate, but first I must speak to the officer in charge."

"Well," the young man attending her injuries said, "unless you are delusional, I don't guess the blow to your head has affected your mind.  You stay right here, and I'll go find Lieutenant Lindsay."

Cheryl nodded her agreement, and immediately wished she hadn't.

"What do we do now?" Moretti asked.

"Damned if I know," Al replied, watching from their car at the end of the street as the ambulance carrying Agent Wagner screamed off from the safe house.  "We have nowhere left to hide, and unlike my lieutenant, I don't have a billionaire mother to call on for help."

"Billionaire?"

"Well, close to it, I guess."

After a brief silence, Moretti asked, "Ya open ta suggestions?"

Al shrugged.  It wasn't exactly a yes, but it wasn't a no, either, so Moretti made a recommendation.  

"Let's quit hidin'."

Al looked at him, shocked.  "Are you out of your mind?"  
  


Moretti chuckled and said, "Maybe I am, but ya know, hangin' out with Em, I found out that bein' half crazy can be an advantage sometimes."

Al shook his head, ready to dismiss the suggestion out of hand, but then he grew thoughtful.  Lieutenant Stephens and Moretti _had_ managed to avoid the LAPD, the FBI, and the mob for a month, even while leading the criminals into a trap set by the police and the feds.  He wasn't sure he and Moretti together could be half as clever as Stephens, but still, maybe there was something to be said for doing the unexpected.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Hey, kiddo, it's Dad again," Keith said, stroking Emily's hair as he sat beside her bed having just relieved Alex from his vigil.  "You're mom's still at the beach house, having a nap, and boy, does she need it!  She fell asleep standing up in my arms, and I had to carry her to bed.  She's gonna sleep for hours, but I wouldn't be surprised if she comes in here this afternoon with Stephen in tow."

As soon as he stopped talking, the noises of the hospital room intruded into his thoughts again.  He heard the whoosh and click from the ventilator, the beeps of various monitors, and an infernal hiss from the inflatable stockings that kept filling with air and collapsing to prevent Emily from getting dangerous blood clots in her legs.  

"Your mom talked with Steve and his wife, and I explained things to Steven and his granddad, and I guess everything is alright between them and us now.  Steven's mom is a nice lady, and I can see a lot of her in him.  They're both very kind people.  I suppose you and he are pretty serious for you to have let him move into your house.  I warned him that your mom would have something to say about that, but I can tell that she likes him, too, so don't worry, she probably won't put up too much of a stink."

Emily was still in her drug-induced slumber, so she didn't respond, but Keith was sure the pain lines across her forehead and the tension in her body had diminished while he had been talking, so he continued.

"You've never seen the Chief's house, have you?  Ohhh, it's a beautiful place, Em, nothing like home, but still a wonderful place to be.  You can walk across the back yard, through the gate, and right down to the Pacific Ocean.  The Chief says he still goes surfing once in a blue moon, usually when his friend Dr. Travis goads him into it by teasing him about his age.  I wonder if your mom ever tried it when she was out here years ago.  Somehow, given her luck with skiing on the hillside pasture when she was a kid, I doubt it."

Stroking his daughter's soft, curly red hair and rambling about inconsequential things was soothing to Keith's frayed nerves, and he kept it up a long while.  "I've spent a lot of time running on the beach lately, and I'm in great shape because of it.  I do at least three miles a night.  Your mom spends a lot of time sitting on the deck, wrapped in a blanket, writing letters home or reading books she's borrowed from Mark.  I think the roar of the waves coming into the shore and the crying of the gulls calms her.  She's been very worried about you, you know?"

Keith was surprised to find that he had actually been working his way around to a point, without even knowing it.  "Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens, when you get better you and your mother have got to talk.  One of you has to be willing to bury the hatchet, and preferably not in the other's back."

He smiled at his own bad joke, then frowned.

"Ok, I know that was a stupid thing to say.  Sweetheart, I know how much you and your mom love each other, and that's why it's so important for the two of you to settle things.  Until you forgive each other for the mistakes of the past, you'll never be able to get along like a mother and daughter should."

Deciding he had said enough about matters that couldn't be resolved until his daughter had come to and was able to talk them over, Keith started rambling again.

"When I run on the beach, I go about half a mile south to the pier, then back up to a cairn of rocks a mile north of the beach house.  An access road runs to the Pacific Coast Highway from there.  It takes me right past Alex's house.  He's a friend of the Sloans.  He and his wife have two big Newfoundlands, and two Newfie pups.  When I run past their house, the dogs chase me along the fence, barking like they think they're the hounds of hell . . . "

"So, where are they?" Cheryl demanded.

"Commander, you don't understand," Lieutenant Lindsay tried to explain.  "I didn't send them anywhere.  I don't know where they are.  They called 911, but by the time we got here, they were gone."

"Dammit!" Cheryl yelled, despite the throbbing in her head.  "How's Agent Wagner?"

Lindsay shook her head.  "He was clinically dead when the ambulance got here.  They shocked him back, but he coded twice more before you came to.  I think they gave up trying to stabilize him and just took him to the hospital."

"What exactly happened to him?" Cheryl asked, though she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

Lindsay's reply was concise.  "One.  In the neck.  A thirty-eight."

"His son, Diaon, is a police captain," Cheryl said, thinking Amanda would prefer to get the news from him instead of a stranger.  "You can contact him through the Valley Bureau of the LAPD."

"This just in," the anchorman said reading some notes that had been handed to him by someone off screen.  "Special Agent in Charge of Missing Persons Investigations, Ron Wagner, has just been found critically wounded at an FBI safe house in Barstow.  There is no word on who else was there, but it is likely that Giancarlo Moretti was the individual Agent Wagner was protecting."

Amanda, who had taken the day off to recover from the stressful late night she had spent waiting with Mark and Steve for word on Emily, picked up her phone with trembling hands and dialed information.  Dion had probably already found out through the police department, but CJ and Hannah needed to know, too.  CJ had told her where he could be reached, but only in case of emergency.  This certainly qualified.

"The Argyle Hotel, please, in West Hollywood."  When her call was put through, she said simply, "Alicia Birch-Geiger's room, please."  Then, when she heard her son's sleepy voice answer, she said, "CJ, it's your mother."

"Mom?" 

She heard the confusion and distress in his voice, and she could tell he was upset, thinking she had disturbed him for something trivial or perhaps to lecture him about spending the night in Alicia's hotel room.  Not able to think of a good way to tell him over the phone, she just blurted out the news.  "Ron's been shot.  He's up in Barstow.  I think it's bad.  Will you pick me up on your way?"

His voice tight with tension, CJ replied, "I'll be there in twenty minutes.  Call Hannah."  He hung up without even saying goodbye.

"Oh, God," Steve murmured as the scene cut from the studio to Jonas Monroe, still in front of the Valley Bureau headquarters.

"Captain Bentley," Monroe called, "who do you think shot your adoptive father?"

As a distraught Dion headed for his car, he said, "That's Bentley-_Wagner_, Mr. Monroe, and I don't know or care.  That's for the Barstow PD to work out.  I just want to get up there so I can be with him.  Now, would you please excuse me?  In need to go pick up my sister."

Jonas stepped in the police captain's path again.  "The story is, he was shot by a fellow FBI agent assigned to protect Giancarlo Moretti.  Was your father a threat to Mr. Moretti?"

Dion stopped in his tracks and looked the reporter in the eye.  "My father has spent his entire adult life fighting crime.  He would sooner die than be a party to it.  Now, move out of my way, Mr. Monroe, before I move you myself."

After a tense moment, Jonas stepped aside, and as the camera trained on Dion's receding figure, Jonas Monroe's voice was heard to say, "There you have it, folks.  Yet again, the LAPD uses threats to avoid the questions of the press."

"Hey, Jess," Alex said, stopping by the ER on his way out of the hospital.  It was past noon, and he was due back at six.  It would make much more sense to just catch a few hours' rest in the sleep room and then change into scrubs for his night shift in the ER, but after all his friends had been through in the past several hours, he needed the reassurance of seeing his wife.  He needed to wrap her in his arms, smell her perfume, feel her touch, and spend an hour or two with her playing with their dogs.  He just needed to know his own world was still holding together.

"Hey, Alex!" Jesse said, cheerfully.  "What are you still doing here?"

"I was sitting with Emily while her parents went to the beach house to speak with Steve and Maribeth."

"Oh.  Do you know what they said?"

Alex frowned.  "No, I don't.  I talked to Keith a few minutes ago, but I couldn't ask.  It just didn't seem right, y'know?"

"Yeah," Jesse agreed, "After all these years of his being her father, I guess it shouldn't matter whose genes she carries, except for how it will effect Steven.  How is she doing?"

"Weak but stable.  Sedated.  Her dad is with her now."

Jesse smiled, "That will make her just a little bit better," he said.

_Dr. Travis, you have a phone call on line three, _a voice called on the PA system, _Dr. Travis, please answer line three._

Alex waited politely as Jesse took the call, but he moved toward his friend in concern when he heard Jesse say, "When the hell is this mess going to end?"

"Jess?"

Jesse held up a hand indicating that Alex should wait a minute.

"Yeah, ok, CJ . . . Tell your mom, Dion, and Hannah I'll be thinking about him . . . Don't _worry_ we can hold down the fort for a while . . . Yes, I'm positive, now just go."

Jesse hung up the phone and turned to Alex.  "Ron was shot up in Barstow.  It doesn't look good.  Can you stay and cover for CJ?"

"Sure, I can do that," Alex agreed.  "I'll be in the sleep room until his shift starts.  What time was he supposed to come on?"

Jesse looked at his watch and grinned ruefully.  "Half an hour ago," he said.

"Steve, are you sure you want us to go?" Liv asked, concerned.

"Yeah, Dad," Steven said, "Keith just called and Em is still stable and still sleeping.  We can hang around here a while, no problem."

Smiling, Steve shook his head and spoke with a confidence he did not feel.  "No, you two go on.  I'll be all right.  I was dealing with the sharks from IAD before Paige started cutting teeth.  I can handle him so he doesn't know he's being handled."

"You're sure?" Liv asked once more.

"Positive.  Now will you please go see your daughter?  I know you would much rather be with her, and I am starting to feel guilty that you have been hanging out here with us."

She smiled, still a little worried.  "Ok, but you call if there's anything Keith and I can do to help."

"I will, but I won't need to."  He gave Liv a peck on the cheek, and Steven a pat on the back as he sent them out.  He wanted them out of the house as much because he knew they were worried about Emily as because he didn't want them to see him squirming while Paige questioned him about his actions over the past few weeks.  He'd hardly done things by the book, and he knew it.  Even if things worked out ok for Moretti in the end, he'd committed several prosecutable offenses, depending on how the DA wanted to look at it.  

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Al asked as he turned on to Beach Drive and began cruising very slowly toward their destination.

"Yeah," Moretti said, quietly.  "Like I told ya, they're tearing you an' Em an' Sloan an' a lot of good people apart because they can't find me.  This way, I can meet the press on my own terms, clear the air, get the facts out there, an' maybe help some of the people who have been helpin' me for a change."

"But as long as you stay hidden, you're safe."

"I am?"

Al shrugged and rolled his eyes, "Ok, safer, maybe."

"I'm not so sure," Moretti said.  "As long as I don't tell 'em everythin' at once, the press will be interested in what happens ta me for a while yet.  They'll hover around a few days at least, maybe give ya a chance to set up a new safe house, and if Gaudino's people get ta me in the meantime, well, maybe someone wit' a camera will be around ta get it on film.  Then you'll have old Vinnie for murder, an' ya can take him out permanent."

"I still don't like it."

Moretti pulled out the gun Wagner had given him when they left the hospital the previous evening and pointed it in Al's general direction.

"So, tell 'em I kidnapped ya."

For a moment, Al's eyes grew wide in shock and fear, then Moretti grinned and placed the gun on the seat between them.  

"Where is Moretti now, Chief?" Malcolm Paige asked again.  He had arrived over two hours ago ago, and when Maribeth had opened the door, he had barged in like he owned the place, and, as Maribeth and Mark discretely retreated to the other room, started firing questions at Steve without so much as a hello.  _The creep is just posturing for the cameras, making a run for my job._  Steve had declined to contact either a union representative or a lawyer.  He was fully willing to cooperate.

"I already told you, Captain Paige, I don't know," Steve swore.  "How many times are you gonna ask me that question?"

"As many as it takes to get a satisfactory answer from you, Chief.  Where has he been sequestered?  Who is guarding him?"

Before Steve could reply, again, that he didn't know because the whole matter had been turned over to Agent Wagner as soon as the trial ended, and that he wouldn't tell Paige if he did know because he didn't trust the slimy little creep, a voice called from the other room, "Oh, my God, you have got to see this."

Steve stood and went quickly to the other room with Paige hot on his heels.  As the camera was jostled a bit and then came back into focus, Steve grinned broadly and said, "I guess that answers your question, doesn't it, Captain?"

It took Malcolm Paige a few moments to figure out what he was seeing, but Steve had immediately recognized his own home in the background behind the car against which Giancarlo Moretti and Al Cioffi were leaning as they conducted an impromptu press conference.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!  Ladies and Gentlemen, please!" Al shouted over the flurry of questions.  "Mr. Moretti has prepared a few remarks, and then he will be willing to answer some questions, but please, let him speak first."

Gradually, the reporters quieted and finally, Moretti was able to make his statement.

"I been watchin' the news all mornin'," he said, "an' all of ya oughta be ashamed."

"Mr. Moretti!"

"Shaddup!" he yelled at the offending reporter.  "Ya been takin' a family's private information an' broadcastin' it all over the country, makin' it sound dirty an' shameful, just ta boost your ratings.  Well, I'm here ta tell ya, I got ta know Lieutenant Stephens over the past few weeks, an' I met her parents an' Chief Sloan an' his family, an' just one of them people has got more integrity an' decency in their little finger than all of ya together can claim."

During his remarks, every time Moretti paused for breath, the reporters tried to call out questions, but Moretti just ignored them and continued talking.  Every time, they quieted down again so they could listen.

"Emily Stephens did not kidnap me.  She faked a kidnappin' ta get me outta an FBI safe house that Agent Wagner knew Vinnie Gaudino's men had gotten into.  The money her mother brought her an' Chief Sloan delivered ta her in the park was ta help us stay hid until all the leaks were found in the FBI and the LAPD.  When the Chief brought her the cash, she made it look like there were three or four snipers with laser sights trained on him the whole time so he couldn't do nothin' ta try an' stop her, an' that was the only time the LAPD spotted her that she wasn't wearin' a disguise.  So, you shouldn't be criticizin' the police for not catchin' her sooner.  Matter of fact, one night when Chief Sloan was in the hospital, she went ta visit him done up as Dr. Amanda Bentley-Wagner, and the woman's own son didn't recognize her when she stopped ta talk ta him.  She's real smart about that kinda stuff, an' that's how she kept me alive.  

"All your stories an' broadcasts have been based on the stupid idea that there was some kinda failed conspiracy ta keep me from testifyin' against Vinnie Gaudino.  Well, you're wrong, an' if Chief Sloan an' the Stephens family don't sue ya for libel an' slander, ya should count yourselves lucky an' find another profession.  For almost a month, Emily Stephens could have killed me any time she wanted an' claimed Gaudino's men done it, an' there woulda been nobody ta prove her wrong.  Instead, she risked her life more'n once ta keep me alive an' make sure when it was time for me ta testify, it was safe for me ta come outta hidin'.

"She damned near broke her back tryin' ta chloroform Nardo Giani when some bogus contact of hers tried ta set us up at a phony safe house, an' she shoulda seen a doctor for it, but she stuck with me for more'n a week to be sure I was safe.  She found a secret way ta sneak into the courthouse without bein' seen, so there was no way for Gaudino's men ta get ta me before I went into the courtroom.  That day, she gave me her own body armor, altered ta fit, of course, an' then, when that crazy woman started shootin' in the courtroom she knocked me, Chief Sloan, an' a coupla cops outta the line of fire, takin' four bullets herself before she could get off a round ta stop the shooter.

"Now, I am here today ta officially tell Chief Sloan that I don't want police protection no more.  I will testify when the DA needs me, but in the meantime, I'm gonna look for a way ta make an honest livin'.  If Vinnie Gaudino or anyone else wants a piece of me, they can just come an' try ta get it."

Moretti finally stopped talking, and after a silent moment, the questions began pouring in.

"If ya don't take turns, I won't answer any of ya!" Moretti yelled, and for a moment, the reporters fell silent again.  When a young woman raised her hand, Al pointed to her, and she began to speak.

"Alicia Rathburn, New York Times West Coast correspondent.  Mr. Moretti, are you saying you left the original safe house willingly with Lieutenant Stephens?"

"No, I was drugged.  I didn't know at the time who she was or why she was takin' me, but once I figured out that she planned ta keep me safe, I went willingly with her an' even helped her with things she needed ta do for my protection a couple of times."

"What sort of things?" the reporter asked.

"Goin' ta my bank an' getting' some documents outta my safety deposit box, for one, stoppin' Nardo Giani an' his crew for another."

A young man with sandy brown hair was next.  "James Frear, Detroit News.  Mr. Moretti, did Lieutenant Stephens happen to mention her relationship to Chief Sloan any time you were with her?"

"Not directly, but I know she admires him, both as a cop an' as a man.  While she was growin' up, her parents taught her that Sloan was a hero.  He an' her mother are old friends, an' both her parents think the world of him."

"Yes, sir, but did she mention whether he was her biological father?"

"No, she did not," Moretti snapped, "an' I don't think that's any of your business anyway.  If the two families haven't already talked about it, they probably will soon, an' they sure won't want a bunch of sleaze bucket scandal rag reporters in their faces when they do."

The next question came from a middle-aged woman.  Just from the way she was dressed and the way she spoke, it was clear her career had not ever become what she wanted it to be, but the look on her face betrayed the fact that, for once in her life, she thought she had a scoop.  She was so desperate to ask her question she forgot to introduce herself.  "Captain Cioffi, is it true Mr. Moretti is your father, and if he is, how do you feel about that?"

Al caught his breath and held it a little while, suddenly aware of the surprised silence that had gripped the pack of reporters.  He looked at Moretti only to find his expression revealed nothing.  For several moments, the reporters waited in silence as he worked out his response.

"He is my father," Al said.  "When I was a kid . . ." his voice caught in his throat, "I used to wonder . . . why my dad didn't . . . love me.  Now, I know he does.  I'm not sure I can say I feel the same about him; there's a lot in his past that we need to deal with, but being a father myself, I know a parent's love is unconditional, and I am grateful to finally have met my dad.  Knowing what he's been through the last few weeks . . . I can't deny that I am . . . proud of him for it, and I hope some day . . . we can find a way to be a family."

After a quiet moment, Al cleared his throat and said, "Next question, please."

When an ambitious-looking young Hispanic woman raised her hand, Moretti called on her.  "Zelotes Guzman, WKTW News.  Mr. Moretti, why are you declining police protection?  Is it because they haven't been able to keep you safe yet?"

Moretti fixed the woman with a hard glare and said, "Lady, I am walkin', talkin', livin', breathin', an' getting' pissed off at you, so how the hell can you say the LAPD and the FBI haven't done their jobs?  I am declinin' police protection because I am getting' tired of seein' good people like Emily Stephens, Steve Sloan, an' Ron Wagner gettin' torn apart by vultures like you just for helpin' me.  This interview is over."

With that, Moretti and Al turned from the crowd of reporters and headed into the beach house where Chief Sloan and his family lived.


	29. Homecoming

**(Chapter 29:  CGH, beach house, Moretti's house, prison, Em's home.  June 29-30, 2033.)**

"I'm very sorry, Emily," Alex said as he looked across his desk at the young woman before him, "but the stem-cell therapy doesn't seem to be working."

She made no sound, but quickly dropped her head.  For a while, she sat silently, brushing invisible lint from the brightly colored plaid blanket that covered her legs.  Alex studied her as she sat there, avoiding his gaze.  Her flame-red hair hung in dense, tightly coiled ringlets down past her shoulders, and was drawn back from her face with a plain gold clip.  She was still painfully thin, but Alex was confident that she would put some meat back on her bones as soon as she got out of the hospital and could begin eating her mother's good home cooking.  Her hands trembled.

When she looked up at him, her gold-green eyes revealed neither pain nor uncertainty, but quiet acceptance.  "That's all right, Alex.  The BioGen virus just altered my cellular structure too much, the stem cells don't know they are supposed to start growing into new tissues in my body.  We both knew it was a long shot."

"But we were both hoping."

"Yeah, for a miracle," she said ironically.  Then she smiled, "but I guess I've about had my quota for a lifetime.  After all, I'm still here."

"There's a cloning study going on at the Mayo Clinic . . ."

"No!  No way."  She refused so readily, Alex supposed she must have already considered and rejected the option. 

"People have . . . watched me my whole life, first because I was bigger and smarter than the other kids, then because I got into trouble with the law.  When I was convicted of treason, for four years, I couldn't even use the toilet without permission.  After the BioGen virus, for weeks I couldn't go anywhere without seeing a reporter, and well, you saw what they were like after the business with Moretti."

He had indeed seen.  In the first days after the shooting in the courthouse, reporters had camped out in lounges around the hospital, lurking about for a chance to spot her parents or one of her doctors and assail them with questions.  One over-eager photographer had even slipped into her room under the guise of an orderly with bathroom supplies and snapped a few pictures of her while she was still sedated and on the ventilator.  Fortunately, Steve had arrived for a visit at just that time and dealt with the man so severely, Alex had no doubt he had seriously considered finding a new profession.  For a while after that, they had backed off, but then postoperative infection had set in, they'd had to remove her damaged kidney, and that idiot Jonas Monroe had started talking conspiracy again.  It seemed every time things had begun to die down, someone would dig up a new and interesting tidbit from Emily's past and revive the story.  He'd even seen a supermarket tabloid that claimed it had proof that she was an alien hybrid with superhuman strength and ESP.

"Cloning is your last chance, Emily, organ donation's not a viable option for you because of the effects of the BioGen virus."

"I know," she said, "but I won't do it.  I've been a freak of nature my whole life.  I was a child prodigy, and my parents had me tested by psychologists and psychiatrists and Lord knows who else, trying to decide what to do with me.  The government used me to create biological, chemical, and energy weapons in my teens.  In my twenties, I somehow survived . . . No, I fully recovered from . . . a genetically engineered virus that killed or totally disabled 98% of the people who contracted it.  If you count my conviction for espionage, this is the fourth time I should have died, but didn't.  I don't want to start my thirties as a freak of science, too.  If I enter this cloning study, and it works, that's exactly what I will be.  I'll have scientists and doctors, watching me and testing me for the rest of my life, to see how well the organs hold up."

"So, that's it?  You're giving up."

Emily nodded, "Yeah, that's it."  Surprisingly, her voice didn't sound defeated or resigned, but remarkably satisfied.  "I've never been normal, Alex.  Now, maybe I can be, normal with a weak heart and a missing kidney, but still, normal.  Besides, I really think the reason we can't figure out this cloning thing well enough to create functional replacement organs is that there are just certain things human beings are not supposed to know.  We've been working on it, what, 30 or 40 years now?  And except for that damned sheep, Dolly, that supposedly proved anything's possible, there's been no real success.  I guess she was a freak, too."

"You can't be a cop anymore."

She dropped her head and started on the fuzz that wasn't there again.  He watched her hands.  They were surprisingly large and capable-looking for a woman's hands, but then, there was a lot about Emily that was surprising, and he knew she was an extraordinarily capable young woman.  This time, she did not look up when she spoke.

"In three days time, it might not matter.  If I am convicted, I'll be off the force anyway."

"I doubt that will happen," Alex said.  When she didn't argue or agree, he continued.  "Except for the stem-cell therapy, everything is going remarkably well.  I think you're ready to go home, as long as you follow doctor's orders and don't overdo it."

He had hoped his announcement would cheer her, but when she finally met his gaze, she couldn't even muster a sad smile.  "Don't worry," she said desolately, "between my mama and Steven, I won't be able to lift a finger even if I want to."

"Well, then, I'll come around about nine o'clock tomorrow morning to discharge you."

"Ok, and thank you Alex."  As she went to release the brakes on her wheel chair, she paused and said, "By the way, I know you take doctor-patient confidentiality very seriously, but I have to ask you, please, give me your word you won't tell anyone about the stem-cell therapy."

"Emily, I have to sign a health form for the LAPD," he reminded her.

"Oh, that," she waved her hand dismissively, "That's so far in the future I hadn't even thought of it.  I'm not asking you to lie on that, I just . . . I want to be the one to tell my parents and Steven that I'm not going to be able to bounce back this time."

"You'll recover, Emily, you just won't be fit for police work," he said, as he came round the desk to take the handgrips on the back of her chair.

"So, I can't go back to doing the one job I ever gave a damn about.  That doesn't sound like recovery to me."

Alex shrugged.  She had him dead to rights.  "I'm sorry, Em."

"I know."

They were sitting in the living room, side by side on the sofa.  Maribeth read the letter a second time, and then a third.  Then she looked up at her husband, stunned.

"Steve, are you sure about this?  I mean really, really sure?"

"Yes, Mar," Steve said patiently, and a little amused.  "If I weren't sure I wouldn't have written the letter."

She turned to face him completely.  "Why?  After all these years, why now?"

He shrugged.  There were so many reasons, some of them too hard to explain.  "Why not?"

"Oh, don't even try that with me!  Why are you doing this?  I've tried for years to get you to retire, but you wouldn't.  Why now?"

He sighed, and tried to convince himself it wasn't really lying to only tell her the parts she wanted to hear.  "Well, for starters, I'm an old man, Mar.  When I joined with the force, twenty years was a good run.  I've had more than twice that."  

She eyed him critically.  "Yes, but you're still fit and healthy and enjoy your work, so I can't imagine you'd quit just on the basis of your age.  What's the real reason?"

He couldn't tell her that every time he noticed he had a stiff shoulder or sore muscles or forgot where he put his damned reading glasses, he heard Leigh Ann's voice when he interviewed her the night Emily got shot.  _Maybe you could salvage some dignity by claiming old age clouded your judgment, but that would only prove you're an old fool clinging to a younger man's job, too vain and proud to admit you are well past your prime._  He tried another tactic.

"I've given two thirds of my life to the LAPD, Maribeth.  I'm tired."

"Bull."

He was losing his temper with her.  He could feel it slipping away.  "Look Mar, I thought you would be happy about this.  I thought you wanted me to retire.  If you have changed your mind and decided you don't want your husband underfoot all the time, you can say so, but it's not going to change my decision!"

Maribeth stood up and started to pace.  Moving helped her think, and she needed to think clearly so she could say what she needed to in just the right way.  "I haven't changed my mind, Steve.  In fact, I have had my own resignation written for the past ten years.  I can transfer my patients to other doctors, fill out pension and social security paperwork, and be officially retired by the end of the week, but I need to know that you'll be happy doing this.  I don't want to spend the remainder of my days with a restless, discontented, resentful husband who feels he's been maneuvered into doing something he didn't really want.  Are you absolutely sure you're ready to hang it up?"

Steve stood up and blocked her path.  She stopped and stood facing him, looking at him with so much love and understanding, he hated himself for not telling her everything.  He couldn't tell her how it hurt to hear the press calling him 'The Teflon Cop' like they used to call John Gotti 'The Teflon Don' because they knew Gotti was a crook and a killer and just couldn't make the charges stick.  He couldn't tell her how guilty he felt about Emily's sacrificing herself for him.  He couldn't tell her that he wasn't sure he still had what it took to be a cop, that he should have found a reason to get Leigh Ann out of the courtroom, that he should have seen the gun, that it should have been him because he'd lived a long time and Em was just getting started and it was just damned good luck that she was still alive because he sure as hell hadn't done anything to help her.  He couldn't tell her the truth.

He smiled at her.  "Do you remember where I was when Steven got arrested?"

She smiled back.  "You were on stakeout."

"And what happened at his senior night football game?"

"You were called away to a hostage situation and couldn't go out on the field and stand with him when they recognized the seniors who were leaving the team."

"And his medical school graduation?"

"You had to leave early for the first of the Mafia hearings."

He nodded.  The sense of loss as he listed the things he had missed grew almost overwhelming, and he felt tears begin to prick his eyes, but he would not let them fall.  "Those are things I can never get back, Mar.  I want to be a part of what's to come."

"But Steve, I've been called away, too, from birthdays and graduations and ballgames.  It's the nature of the work we do.  Why are you leaving the force _now_?"

"Because I want to rent that boat and sail to Catalina with you while we're both still able to enjoy it, Mar.  Because I don't want to be called away from my son's wedding, if he ever gathers the nerve to ask that girl to marry him.  Because I want to spoil my grandkids."  He felt a weight in his chest, and it was getting hard to breathe.  "Because I'm afraid, Mar.  I don't want to end up like Ron.  There's too much left to do.  I don't want you to end up like Amanda, and I don't want Steven to have to face what CJ, Dion, and Hannah are going through.  Because I've had enough, Maribeth!  I've just had enough!"

Maribeth looked into her husband's eyes and saw tremendous sorrow and deep pain.  "I don't think you've ever been so honest with me in all the years we've been together, darling."

He stood before her, trembling, gasping for breath, fighting to control his emotions.  "Mar, I . . ."

Something in his eyes scared her, a part of his soul she knew he couldn't bear to expose, even to her, even now.  She cut him off before he could make an admission he couldn't live with.  "You haven't been to visit them for a long time, have you?"

He shook his head no, and looked away, ashamed.  "Not since it happened.  Amanda is so lost, they're all hurting so much.  I just can't stand to see it."

"You should go see them before you give this letter to Tanis."

"It won't change my mind."

"You should go see them anyway."

He nodded, but still didn't meet her gaze.  She dropped the letter to the coffee table and forgot about it.  "Look at me, Steve."

After several moments, he did let her see his eyes again.  They were red-rimmed and glassy with tears unshed.  She laced her fingers through his hair so he couldn't look away.  "If you really think it's time, then do it, but be sure you're doing this for you, and nobody else, not for your dad or Steven, not for the grandkids we might have someday, and most certainly not for me, because Steve, we all love you, no matter what, especially me."

There was that flicker again, of something he didn't dare show her, and then it was gone.  He nodded and pulled her close in a savage, needy, demanding hug.  She held him for a long time, until finally, the trembling stopped.

"Mornin', Len," Moretti said to the reporter who had been dogging his steps for the past three months or so as he headed down the street for his early morning jog.

"Mornin' Moretti," Lenny Murdoch said as he fell into step beside the former mobster.  "What's on the agenda today?"

"Well, after my run, I'm gonna lift some weights an' have some breakfast," Moretti said conversationally.  "Then there's a small Welcome Home party for Em at her place.  After that, I think I'm gonna come back here an' paint the livin' room in my apartment.  Wanna help?"  

"I don't think so, thanks," Murdoch replied.  

Moretti had taken an apartment in the same complex as his grandson, both for safety and to be near his family.  While he made no secret of where he lived, he hadn't gone out of his way to communicate his new address to his old cohorts either, and as a result, he saw surprisingly little of them.  Murdoch had gotten a good human-interest story out of it, and Moretti had gotten an extra hand with moving his things.  Under normal circumstances, Moretti would never consider speaking to the young man who had nearly destroyed so many good people's lives, but, once Murdoch had discovered his mistakes, he had printed a full retraction and called on the rest of the mass media to stop scandal-mongering long enough to search out the whole truth.  He hadn't completely undone the damage he had caused, but his retraction plus a public letter of apology to each of the individuals he had hurt had gone a long way toward raising his credibility in Moretti's opinion.

"What are you gonna do tonight?" Lenny asked.

"I guess Fredo an' I are goin' over ta Al's for a cookout an' maybe a swim.  I think Donovan an' Hannah Wagner are gonna be there."

"I see.  How are the Wagners?" Lenny's voice dropped in register, expressing his sympathy for the family.  There wasn't a reporter in LA who had worked on Moretti's story who didn't know what had happened to Agent Wagner at the safe house in Barstow.

"Last I heard, they were all hangin' in there, though I imagine it's been rough."

The men had reached a hill on their run and needed all their air to get up it.  It gave them each time to silently contemplate the good fortune that had so far spared them the kind of suffering that had visited the Wagner family.

"Does Helen . . . still refuse . . . to talk to you?"  Lenny huffed when they got to the downside of the hill.

Helen was Moretti's daughter-in-law, though for the first two months of their acquaintance, she had refused to acknowledge him and made a habit of hanging up whenever she answered his phone calls and shutting the door in his face whenever he came to the house.

"Nah, we've been on speakin' terms for a while, now.  She's civil but not nice, but that's off the record."

"Ok, then what can I print?"

At the bottom of the hill, Moretti began to sprint, leaving the younger, but much less fit, Murdoch behind.  He slowed his pace on the next uphill grade, and by the time Murdoch caught up, he had thought of a suitable answer.

"You can print, 'Mr. Moretti never expected ta be welcomed into the Cioffi family with open arms.  In fact, he never expected ta be welcomed at all, so he was surprised an' delighted when his grandson invited him ta move into the same apartment complex, an' felt humbled when his son an' daughter-in-law began invitin' him to cookouts an' special family events.'"

"Sounds good.  You coulda been a reporter.  Can you give me a quote?"

"Sure.  A year ago, I didn't know I had any family left.  Last week, I got ta see my son turn forty-five.  All of a sudden, I belong somewhere, I'm part of somethin' bigger an' better than I could ever have been by myself."

"That's pretty profound, Moretti."

"Thanks.  I can be that way sometimes."

"Moretti, why do you let me hang around all the time?" Lenny asked as if the thought had never occurred to him before.

"For safety."

"Safety?"

"Yep.  I figure as long as you are here, anybody who agrees ta do a hit on me is gonna have ta deal with you an' your camera, too," Moretti explained.  "You know me an' my habits, an' if anythin' happens, you're gonna start nosin' around pretty quick an' just maybe, you'll come in before the job is done an' run off whoever comes after me."

"I see," Murdoch said nervously, and blanched.

Moretti didn't miss his change of color, and chuckled slightly.

"Relax, kid," he said, "anybody comes for me is gonna be a pro.  Pros like ta take care of business either behind closed doors with no witnesses or with a sniper's rifle from a distance, so no one can see where the shot came from.  You're as safe with me as in your mother's arms."

"You sure?" Murdoch asked.

"Pretty sure," Moretti replied.  They rounded the last corner to the apartment complex, and Moretti said, "Last one back buys the beer."

Murdoch ran as hard as he could, but the older man left him behind, again.  Of course, he'd never bought Moretti a beer yet.  It was just something Moretti said to make it seem like there was a point to their race.

As the old pink jeep pulled up the drive, a very nervous Emily looked eagerly at her house in Brentwood.  She had been in the hospital for three months, away from home for four, and she could not believe how good it felt to be coming back.  True, she was still very weak, so weak in fact, that she knew she would not make it into the house under her own steam, and she would require assistance for many tasks for months yet to come, but she was _home_, and that made all the difference.

"Ok, kiddo," Keith said as he brought her wheelchair around from the back of the jeep, "let's get you inside."

"Not yet, Daddy.  Please, just let me look at it a while."

Humongous ferns alternated with pink petunias trailing four-foot-long streamers of blossoms along the edge of the porch roof.  The swing, with its vibrant floral cushions, swayed slightly in a faint breeze, and the chimes tinkled sweetly.  Morning glories clung to the main support posts that held up the roof, and creamy-petaled climbing peace roses threaded through the front rail.  The spring bulbs, mostly calla lilies, tulips, and gladiolas were long gone, but a vibrant collection of field-grade lilies, zinnias, four o'clocks, snap dragons, and sweet peas glowed brilliantly in the flowerbeds.  Begonias and dusty miller, coxcomb, pansies, and lots of primrose grew close to the ground.  Emily's favorites were the primrose, which she had planted herself, knowing how her mother despised them, because the deceptively delicate flowers camouflaged a surprisingly hardy plant that was almost impossible to get rid of once it crept into areas where it didn't belong.

When Emily first moved out West, the big brick house had been nothing more than an extravagant roof over her head, a sterile, empty shelter far away from her mother's fretting and the lethal cold of the Pennsylvania winters to which the BioGen virus had made her so dangerously susceptible.  As she cleaned it up and added a few touches of her own, including the primrose, it had become a haven where she could come and unwind after a stressful day training Rossi, Velasquez, and Marino, and attending the California legal classes that she needed to complete in order to become a member of the LAPD.  Then, when Steven had moved in, it had become a home, simply because someone who loved her lived there.

As Emily gazed upon her house for the first time in four months, the man who made it her home stepped out on the porch to greet her, and suddenly, she felt her heart move into her throat, choking her with emotion.  She bit her bottom lip to keep it from trembling and closed her eyes to hold back the tears.  In all the time she had been in the hospital, she had never asked if he would be there when she came home, because she was afraid she would not like the answer.  She had put him through so much in the past few months.  After all the lies and deceit, after the trouble she had caused his family and friends, seeing her lover come out of her home, welcoming her back, was more than she could have hoped for.

As Steven walked toward her, Emily took several deep, calming breaths, wincing slightly at the pain in her chest, which she had been told would go away with time.  She watched his long, lithe frame as he moved down the steps and across the drive to stand beside the jeep.  He moved with such grace and ease, _He looks perfectly at home,_ she smiled.

"Welcome home, Em," he said softly as he stopped beside the jeep.  "What are you grinning at?"

She shook her head.  There was too much to explain.  Past the lump in her throat, she managed to choke out the words, "It's just good to be back."

Steven helped her out of the car and into the wheelchair, and while her dad parked the car and got her bags, her mom hovered nearby to tut and fuss over her and be sure the blanket was securely tucked around her legs.

"Mama, please," Emily said gently, "I'm only going as far as the house."

"Of course you are," Liv said, "I'm sorry.  Old habits die hard."  Even as she spoke, Liv tucked the blanket a little tighter.  Emily just smiled and endured.  She had learned of late the value of being loved, and had promised herself never to take it for granted again.

Leigh Ann turned the pages of the LA Times morning edition with trembling hands, looking for a new story about Sloan, Moretti, or that wretched bitch, Emily Stephens.  For a while, it had looked like she was going to succeed in destroying them all, but then, her scheme had fallen apart.  First, it was proven that Stephens was not Sloan's daughter, that there was nothing improper about his hiring her to work for the LAPD, and that there was nothing perverse about her relationship with his son.  Then Moretti had shown up, alive and well, and put a cop-friendly spin on all the facts in Murdoch's article.  When Agent Wagner had been shot, his family got the sympathy vote, and when Emily rallied and her condition started to improve, the city of Los Angeles, awed by her resilience, swayed to her side and began to see Sloan's little gang as protectors of the innocent and defenders of justice once again.  After that, the media had, day by miserable day, revised its view of Sloan and his cohorts, molding their stories to conform to popular opinion so as not to offend the audience.  For a little while, when Stephens developed a dangerous kidney infection, Jonas Monroe and a few other reporters had started talking about a conspiracy again, but as soon as they realized that the public disagreed with their theories, they dropped the story.  Now, it seemed to Leigh Ann, her best hope was that Emily would die or that someone would kill Moretti.

Leigh Ann had pleaded 'no contest' to all of the charges against her.  Even as he'd hired a divorce lawyer to get free of her without having to pay up on the prenuptial agreement he had signed, Rick had paid her defense attorney to petition the court for psychiatric evaluations and make all sorts of other motions on her behalf.  Rick was not a powerful man, but, she had to admit, he was a disgustingly good man and he had provided for her despite the fact that he could no longer stand the sight of her.  Unfortunately, except for the psyche evaluation, which had proved she was not afraid for her life at the thought of disappointing Mr. Gorini and that she knew the difference between right and wrong and was legally sane at the time of the shooting and during all her other crimes, every motion had been denied.  Now, Leigh Ann was shocked to find herself facing the maximum penalty of life, surprisingly, with the possibility of parole, for the attempted murder of Deputy Chief of Police Steve Sloan.  Since there were a number of lesser charges on which she had been convicted, and since the judge had ordered that her sentences be served consecutively instead of concurrently, she knew she would never live to see a parole hearing, let alone the day she could walk out of the maximum security women's prison in which she had been confined.  

Prison had been a devastating disappointment to Leigh Ann.  She had initially hoped at least to get a thrill from being ordered around by a bunch of powerful men, but a disgusting percentage of her guards had turned out to be women.  Soon she had realized that even the few male guards were just petty bureaucrats following orders.  Hoping for some stimulation, she had come on to one of the male guards and attacked him when he didn't offer any reaction.  She had been secretly thrilled to be placed in solitary confinement, and nearly ecstatic when she was taken to speak to the warden because of it.  Then she had been completely crushed to find he only wanted to get her statement so that when the State Board of Corrections investigated the incident, he could not be cited for denying her the right to levy charges against the guard.  As she sat in the warden's office, recounting her interactions with the guard, Leigh Ann had suddenly realized she was doomed to spend the remainder of her life among pawns and peons, never again to know the unique thrill of being the possession of a powerful man.

Finally, she found what she sought, a small article, buried in section C of the paper, with Lenny Murdoch's byline, and the headline made her weep in despair:  _Lieutenant Stephens Set to Go Home, Attorneys Expecting an Acquittal._

"Now, I know you said you didn't want a big party when you came home," Steven said, bending to whisper in Emily's ear and sending chills down her spine as he pushed her towards the house, "but there are a few people who really needed to be here for you.  Just smile and remember they all love you, and if you get tired or want them to go, all you have to do is ask."

Emily smiled and nodded, feeling warmed by the gesture despite the fact that it went against her express wishes.  _I suppose it would be rude to ask them to leave right away, wouldn't it?  _She took a deep breath to prepare her self for the crowd.  _Be grateful that they care, and stop being so selfish._

"Oh, and try to look surprised," Steven added as her mother opened the door.

Being the consummate actress, when the lights came on and the guests yelled, 'Surprise!' Emily dropped her jaw and opened her eyes wide in an expression of utter shock.  Placing a hand to her chest, she gasped, "Are you trying to scare me to death?  Remember, I have a bad heart!"  _If only they knew.  _It was easy to play the clown as long as no one in the room knew it really was, and always would be true.

"Who ya kiddin', Em?  We all know you're a lot tougher than ya look."

"Moretti?"  Emily was shocked and delighted.  She hadn't seen much of her former charge since the trial, but it worried her to see him now.  "Is it safe for you to be out and about?"

"Safe enough," he replied, and would have said more but he was interrupted.

"Listen, Emmy," Alicia said with mock concern, "with CJ and me here, if you have any problems, help is closer than if you were still in the hospital."  Alicia had no way of knowing how serious Emily's condition still was, because as she had regained her strength, Emily had asked that her care be transferred exclusively to Alex.  She remembered and appreciated his kindness from the day she first awoke and with him as her doctor, she had placed her health in the hands of someone she trusted without having to face the pity of her family and friends.

"And if I needed a shock, you'd improvise a defibrillator from one of the lamps, right?" Emily jested.  _Don't tell her the truth.  Not here, not now.  Be happy.  You are home and surrounded by people who care for you.  That counts for more than anything you have lost._

Grinning, CJ said, "If we had to."

Emily smiled back, but found it hard to hold CJ's gaze for more than a moment.  She was glad that he and Alicia had found each other, and had known from the first time she could remember them coming to visit her together that they were a good match, but the thought of what had happened to his father was a painful reminder to her of all that she had lost.  

She wondered if she would have been able to be there for CJ when he came home if their positions were reversed.  She knew he had no reason to blame her for Agent Wagner's shooting, but she still felt responsible because she hadn't been able to ferret out all of the mob puppets in the FBI, even with Moretti's help.  _Stop it!  He doesn't blame you.  It's not your fault.  _The fact was, nobody had known that Tim Brown was a gambler.  He owed his bookie more than he'd ever be able to earn honestly, and his bookie had owed someone a favor, and that someone had owed someone else, all the way back to someone who owed Vinnie Gaudino.

Feeling her smile falter, Emily turned to Moretti.  "Are you absolutely sure you're safe here?"

Grinning, Moretti replied, "Yes, Em.  I'm fine.  I seriously doubt anyone's gonna come after me now.  Gaudino's gone bankrupt an' can't pay for a hit, an' nobody ever thought enough of him ta do him the favor, so I figure I'm in the clear."

"Moretti," she argued, "he was the head of one of the most powerful criminal organizations in America for years."

"Yeah, Em, but he didn't have his people's respect.  They obeyed him because they feared an' hated him.  Now that he can't hurt them anymore, nobody's gonna listen ta him.  Besides," Moretti grinned, "I have two full time body guards now."

Emily pursed her lips thoughtfully and considered her captain and the young man she now knew as his son.  "I suppose you know Gaudino and his people better than I do," she said, "but if you fool around and get yourself killed, I'm gonna kick your butt, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am.  Don't worry, Em.  I'm safer now than I have ever been in my life," he lowered his eyes and watched his foot as it scuffed across the carpet, "an' I owe it ta you for gettin' me through the worst of it."

_Oh, for goodness sake!  _"Moretti, it was my job, and the right thing to do, you don't owe me a thing, but I would certainly appreciate it if you made the most of your second chance.  Damn few people get one."

"I . . . I know that, kid, an' I won't let ya down."

"Don't worry about me, just don't let yourself down."

For a moment, the room descended into awkward silence, and then, as if suddenly realizing she had been ignoring her other guests to worry over Moretti, Emily looked around and said, "Hi everyone.  Thanks for being here.  It means a lot to know you all care enough about me to want to welcome me home.  I've had a rough few months," _And yesterday was bad, too, after my talk with Alex.  _Picking lint from the blanket over her legs, she continued, "and it's good to finally be getting back to normal."  _Whatever that may be!_  "I'm glad you're all here."

She smiled as she looked at each person in turn.  Besides her parents, Steven, Alicia, CJ, and Moretti, her guests included Captain and 'Fredo Cioffi and Charles Donovan.  Emily wondered where Hannah Wagner was and if she and Donovan were a couple, for she had seen them together a lot when they came to visit her in the hospital, but she figured, like her mother and eldest brother, after the shooting of Agent Wagner, Hannah just couldn't bear to come here and surround herself with these people.  The Chief and Maribeth, he had invited her to call him Steve off duty, _Like that's ever gonna happen!_ were there, too, along with Steven's grandfather, Mark, the only one of the three she had easily taken to calling by his first name.  

Just as she was trying to think of something more to say, _I've never been speechless in my life! _two people came out of the kitchen with trays full of slices of her mom's famous chocolate cake with peanut butter icing and  a cart bearing a coffee urn and a stack of porcelain cups and saucers, and Emily looked up to see her aunt and uncle from Pennsylvania.  "Uncle Kenny, Aunt Sue!  When did you get here?"

"Your mom flew us out a couple days ago," Sue said.

"Yeah, we thought we were going on a vacation, but she put us to work cleaning up the house and getting things ready for you.  Serves us right for not asking before we packed, I guess."

"Ken!"

"Sue!"  Kenny smiled, then said, "Seriously, Em, it's good to see you, sweetheart."  As he stooped to let her choose a slice of cake from his tray, he dropped a kiss on her forehead.  "I'm so glad you're doing better."

She smiled up at him as he moved away.  "You and me both, Uncle Kenny, believe it."  _You **are** better than you were, so it's only half a lie._

For a while, the room grew quiet and Emily's visitors broke off into small clusters chatting about various topics as they enjoyed the cake and coffee Ken and Sue had served.  As Steven pushed her in the wheelchair from one small knot of guests to another, she was able to talk with each group of friends, welcome them to her home, and thank them again for coming.  Then he pushed her over toward Charles Donovan, Moretti, and the Cioffis.  Donovan was regaling them with a story from his teen years when he was on a movie set with his father, helping with the special effects.  

" . . . they needed an extra and I fit the costume.  So, that's how I got my SAG card.  My dad said as a member of the Screen Actor's Guild, I will always have a career to fall back on."

"If you can find the work," 'Fredo Cioffi laughed.

"Yeah, wish me luck!"  Smiling, he turned to Emily.  "So, Lieutenant, has your doctor said when you can come back to work?  I only ask because Lieutenant Bremer was wondering just the other day.  I think he's feeling a bit overwhelmed."

The whole room fell silent, waiting for Emily's answer.

Swallowing hard, Emily turned the full force of her smile on the young man, knowing it would turn him to putty.  _Be nice.  He doesn't know.  None of them know.  _"Actually, Charles, Dr. Martin and I haven't thought much about that.  Right now, I am more concerned with getting through my trial."  Reaching out and patting his hand, she said graciously, "It's so _sweet _of you to ask, though, and it's nice to know I am wanted back."

Predictably, Charles blushed, the crimson of his face clashing with his carrot red hair.  "Yes, ma'am . . . well . . .ummm . . . we do miss you."

Beaming at him again, she said, "Thank you, Charles.  You're a dear."  

Turning inconceivable redder, he said, "Yes . . . ummm . . . thank you ma'am."  Turning to Moretti, he said, "Would you like some more coffee?"  Not even waiting for an answer, he took the other man's cup and crossed the room to the coffee urn as his friends chuckled softly behind his back.

"Steven, darling," Emily said, patting his hand as it rested on her shoulder, "I could do with a breath of air.  Could you wheel me out to the garden for a bit?"

Once they were safely out on the porch, Steven began to laugh.  "Em, you're too rough on that boy.  You know he has a crush on you."

"I know," Emily replied, pointing down one of the paths in her back garden to show where she wished to go.  "It's a wonder Hannah puts up with it."

"Well, she likes you and knows there's no way you would be interested in him."

"Are you sure about that?" Emily asked.  "What makes you think I have decided he's not my type?"

"Well, first of all, I get the impression that you have already decided I definitely am your type," Steven said as he wandered down the white gravel path that Emily had indicated, "and I'm nothing like him.  Secondly, he's too simple . . . I don't mean simple-minded, but innocent, I guess, naïve."

"And you don't think my life could do with a little simplicity right now?" she asked, surprising Steven with an annoyed tone.

"Well, no, Em, that's not what I meant at all," Steven said sincerely as he wheeled her under the branches of a weeping cherry tree.  The delicate pink blossoms were long gone, but the glossy, dark green leaves provided shade from the bright noonday sun and privacy from prying eyes.  "I just think Donovan would be a little boring for someone like you, don't you agree?"

Emily couldn't help herself; suddenly she was so angry she had to tear into someone.  "What do you mean, someone like me?" she demanded.  "Do you mean the loose cannon working just outside the law, or the woman of a thousand masks, so good at being someone else that sometimes she forgets who she really is?  Or maybe you mean the former juvenile delinquent, or the computer hacker, or the invalid who's sitting before you now."

"Em!  No, I . . ."

"Oh, just go away, Steven," she snapped, "and take the party with you.  I told you I didn't want them here when I came home, and I meant it, but you're just like my parents.  They never gave a damn what I wanted either!  Go on back to Malibu with your mom and dad.  My folks will smother me just fine without your help."

"Emily!"  Steven didn't know what else to say.

Emily didn't respond, but with a great effort, she turned her wheelchair so that her back was to her lover.

Steve watched as his son rolled Emily out on to the patio.  From there, they followed a meandering path through the back garden to a graceful weeping cherry tree.  They moved through the garden and away from the house, and even from a distance, Steve could see the rigid set of Emily's shoulders, and he could tell she was either hurting or angry.  In the months since Emily had returned to them, Steve had found she was just like her mother in many ways, and was surprised to find that there were times he could read her even better than his son could.  He only hoped Steven realized how she was feeling now and tread carefully.

He was disappointed when, just a few minutes later his son came back up the path toward the house looking confused and angry.  Steven paused on the patio, took a deep breath, did his best to erase the strong emotions from his expression, came into the house, and said, "Excuse me, everyone, but Emily has asked that you all go home now.  She seems to be feeling a bit overwhelmed, but she says thank you for coming."

Somehow, Steve knew she hadn't said any such thing.

It took just a few minutes for the house to clear, and then it was just Steven, Olivia, Keith, Steve, and Maribeth.  Sue and Kenney had given Mark a lift back to the beach house on their way to the hotel where Olivia had rented them a suite.

"We talked about Donovan's having a crush on her," Steven explained to Emily's parents and his mom and dad,  "and then I said he would be boring for someone like her, and she blew up.  She started calling herself a loose cannon and a juvenile delinquent and an invalid.  Then she said Liv, Keith, and I didn't give a damn about what she wanted and told me to go away.  I didn't know what to say, so I left."

"It sounds like she's depressed," Maribeth said.

"Probably," Liv agreed.  "It's common after a lengthy illness."

"I don't think so," Steve said, surprising everyone.  Looking from Maribeth to Olivia, he said, "Look, I know you're both doctors, and Liv, I know you've been gravely ill in the past and are speaking from experience, but Em's a cop, and I can tell you from my own experience, she's not just depressed.  I've got a feeling there's more to this than what meets the eye."  Looking at the young woman's parents, he asked, "Would you mind if I had a word with her?"

Liv and Keith looked at each other silently for a moment, and then Olivia wordlessly gestured towards the back garden.

Before he went outside, Steve fixed two cups of hot, rich coffee from the urn that had been set up for the welcome home celebration, and he filled a thermos with more and put the whole lot on a tray with a small pitcher of cream and the sugar bowl.  He wasn't sure how long he would be out there talking to his lieutenant, but he knew abundant coffee made the conversation flow faster.  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and headed out to the garden feeling very much like Daniel entering the lions' den.  For a brief moment, he questioned the wisdom of his actions, but shook off the doubt.  He was not a psychologist, but his job demanded that he understand people, and of all people, he was sure he could understand another cop best.

As he approached the cherry tree, Steve was pleased to see a small white concrete bench sitting beneath it.  Now he could speak to Emily at her level without straining his knees by squatting or kneeling and he would have some place to set the tray of coffee._  Now, what the hell am I going to say?_

Emily had just managed to stop sobbing when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel behind her.  "Go away!  I want to be alone."  

The person behind her continued to approach, but she refused to look at whoever it was.  Nobody could possibly understand what she was going through, and she had no inclination to explain.  When the Chief sat on the bench facing her, she took a deep breath and looked down at her hands in her lap and began picking lint from the blanket across her knees yet again, just to give herself something to focus on.  She really wanted him to get lost, but her deep respect for the man, taught to her from an early age, made it impossible for her to be as rude with him as she would be with Steven, or her own parents for that matter.

As he sat in front of his lieutenant, for the first time, Steve became aware of how very vulnerable she seemed.  He knew she had to have been afraid at some point while she was in hiding with Moretti, but in all his dealings with her, she had put on a great show of being completely in control, and having a good time of it as well.  If she had not known fear at the moment she was shot, she had almost certainly been frightened when she came to, hooked up to various machines in the hospital, confused and in pain, but she had never shown it.  Now, though, she looked lost, and frightened, and totally alone, and he knew just how she felt.  

Steve could still remember the all consuming fear he had experienced when, years ago, he had come out of a lengthy coma only to find his dad on trial for the murder of Gordon Ganza, the man who had ordered the hit that had initially put him in the hospital.  Even the grueling physical therapy and his agonizingly slow recovery, always dogged by the doubt that he might never recover enough to return to work full time, hadn't matched the pain and fear of seeing his own father convicted of murder and sentenced to death.  He could barely begin to imagine how Emily must feel.

For a long time, Steve and Emily sat quietly together under the tree.  When it became apparent that she was not going to speak, he finally said, "Thank you for saving my life."

Emily shrugged, a clear indication that she was not going to say what was on her mind without some coaxing.  Without looking up at him, she said, "It was my job."

"The hell it was," he told her harshly.  "It was a selfless, courageous, and damned foolhardy thing to do.  I will never be able to thank you properly for it, but you could at least let me say the words and accept them graciously.  Thank you for saving my life."

This time, she looked up at him, just for a moment, and he almost wished she hadn't.  Her expression was so haunted, so frightened, he suddenly doubted if anyone could understand her suffering.

"You're welcome," she said, and looked away again.

Steve handed her a cup of coffee and a saucer.  "Drink up," he said.  "It will make you feel better."  If he couldn't understand, he could at least sympathize.

It took Emily a while to obey, but finally she did drink some of the coffee.  As she lowered the cup, it rattled sharply against the saucer, and Steve looked down to see her hands trembling.  The coffee was sloshing in the cup, and some of it splashed onto her leg.  

"Oh, dammit!" she snapped, and then came unhinged.  "Dammit!  Dammit!  Dammit!"  She pulled back to throw the cup and saucer, coffee staining her blanket and her blouse, but Steve caught her hands and took the delicate, expensive porcelain pieces away from her.  

"Shh, it will wash," Steve murmured as he pulled her to him.  She began to sob and started thumping his chest, but he held her close, rubbed her back, and soothed her, and eventually she calmed down.

"You don't have to do this, you know," he said softly into her hair.

"Do what?" she sniffed.

"Be tough all the time and pretend you don't need anyone," Steve replied, feeling very much like a hypocrite.  _How many times have **you** tried to stand against the world on your own?  _"Trust me, it doesn't work.  All you do is make it harder on yourself by depriving yourself of the support you need and depriving the people who care about you of the chance to be there for you."

"I just don't want them to worry."

"Emily, they love you," he said, holding her at arm's length to look her in the eye.  "They're going to do that anyway.  You just make it worse for them by not telling them what's troubling you."

For a while, Emily just sat sniffling and shuddering as waves of emotion tore through her.  Steve held her hands and waited quietly.  Finally, she looked up at him, almost shyly, and said, "How well do you know my parents?"

Steve was caught off guard by the non sequitur, but after a moment, he was able to reply.  

"I know a lot about your mom," he said.  "She had a very difficult life, as a child and as an adult, but it made her incredibly strong, and patient and compassionate, and I know she developed a deep faith in God to get her through the rough times."

"What about my dad?  What do you know about him?"

Steve smiled.  "I don't know your dad so well.  I never did.  Sometimes, I still get the feeling he only tolerates me because I am important to people he cares about."

"Mom and me."

"Yes."

"Dad taught me you were a hero.  I know all about how you and Mom were planning to get married and you stood aside and told her to marry him.  I'm sorry she hurt you."

Steve shrugged.  This conversation was getting far too personal for him.  "It's all water under the bridge.  If she hadn't chosen him over me, I never would have met my wife, and I wouldn't have Steven now, and neither would you."  He tried a smile, but it did not have the desired effect.

Emily nodded slightly, frowned, and said, "It was still a rotten thing for her to do."  Looking back to her hands, which were still picking invisible lint, she asked, "You were there when Ted Baer died, weren't you?"

The conversation seemed to be veering off course again, and confused, Steve just followed Emily's lead, waiting to see where she would take him.  "Yeah, I was there."

"Do you remember what they said to him?" she asked.  "Uncle Kenney's told me about it dozens of times.  I know the story by heart, but I only know what Ken saw.  Mom and Dad won't talk about it.  Do _you_ remember what my mom and dad told Ted Baer when he was dying?"

Steve felt an odd fluttering in his stomach, like a moth rattling inside the glass globe around the porch light.  He remembered that day like it was yesterday.  It was the first time he had really wondered if he was the right man for Liv.  He'd told his dad about it, and about his concerns that he could never be so forgiving and compassionate, and he'd never spoken of it again.

"I remember.  They said they loved him and forgave him and that God would, too."

"It was the third or fourth time he'd tried to kill my mom.  He tried to kill you, too, and they forgave him."

"He was sick, Em . . . "

"He was an evil, perverted son of a bitch, and they forgave him!"  Emily looked up at Steve again, her eyes flashing anger, and he knew they had wandered into a sore spot for her, but he didn't know what it was or why she was upset.  "Why couldn't they forgive me?

"Forgive you?  Emily, forgive you for what?  I'm sorry, I don't understand."

As fast as it had ignited, Emily's anger burned itself out.  "People just love my folks."

"They're good people, Em."

"Yeah, they're freakin' perfect," she agreed sarcastically.  When Steve said nothing, didn't even look surprised, she eventually continued.  "Do you know why I became a cop?"

Steve gave it some thought.  He knew what Liv and Keith had told him, but that wasn't necessarily the real reason.  Finally, he replied, "Your mom and dad said you wanted to make up for some of the things you had done as a kid and for some of the things the government had done with your ideas while you were in Washington."

Emily shrugged.  "That's what I told Moretti, too."

Steve knew what that shrug meant.  After several silent minutes, he finally asked, "So, what's the real reason?"

She looked at him, quite surprised, and then she smiled.  "I'm a hell of a good actor, but a lousy liar.  How'd you know there was more?"  
  


Steve shook his head.  "Sorry, kid.  If I tell you my secret, I'll lose my advantage.  Now why _did_ you become a cop?"

"When I was growing up, everybody thought my parents were such good people," Emily said.  "I remember the preacher doing a sermon on forgiveness once, and while he didn't name names, and he did change the specifics, everybody knew he was talking about Mom and Dad when Ted died."

Steve poured another cup of coffee as he realized this was going to be a long explanation.  Emily was a lot like her mother in that nothing was simple.  She had to give all the back-story leading up to a situation for anything to make sense.  _The big questions in life are never short answer._  He poured a cup of coffee for her, too, and handed it over.

"People think my mom is an angel and my dad is a saint," she explained.  "They forget things like what my folks did to you and the time my mom left my dad.  They forget about the hell mom raised when she was in school and that the CB was put in the jeep so she could warn her underage friends to clear out when the county deputies were closing in on the weekend party.  They forget how Dad sent her away after he lost his legs and didn't speak to her for over a decade.  They forget that until the night before their wedding, she'd been sleeping with you and neither she nor my dad knew for sure who my father was."

"Your mom says she knew," Steve reminded her.

Emily made a face that clearly indicated she did not credit her mother with any special knowledge or powers of divination.  "She took it on faith.  I'm not big on faith, Chief.  I trust proof.  She had no reason to believe my dad was really my . . . dad except that she wanted him to be."

"But she was right."

"Yeah, there is that."  Emily fell silent a moment, as if trying to decided just how much of the truth she should tell.  "Anyway, people always spoke in glowing terms about all the good, kind, loving, compassionate, righteous things my parents did.  Then they whispered about me."

"What do you mean, they whispered?" Steve asked, curious.

"People called me lots of things," Emily said lightly, trying too hard to sound like she didn't care about the words that had been said behind her back when she was a child.  "When I was small, they said I was shy, unsociable, mischievous, inconsiderate, and ill mannered.  As I got a little older, I was called awkward, backward, naughty, even wicked.  Everybody felt sorry for my sainted parents because I was such a difficult child."  The word 'sainted' was said in a sarcastic tone that said she knew far more than most people about her parents' shortcomings and she wasn't inclined to overlook them.  "The truth is, I wasn't bad.  I was just bored."

"I understand you showed signs of genius from a very early age," Steve said.

"Oh, that's an understatement."  Strangely, Emily didn't seem to be bragging.  If anything, she seemed bitter.  "I was reading Shakespeare while my classmates were still sounding out Dr. Seuss.  My teachers didn't know what to do with me; my parents were at a loss.  They all tried to make me fit in, and it just didn't work."

"You rebelled."

Emily smiled mirthlessly and nodded.  "Big time, Chief."

Steve just nodded his understanding.  The whole country now knew what a wild child Emily had been, and there was no denying, she had been trouble in motion, plain and simple.  Steve was suddenly struck by a question that he realized no one had ever thought to ask, and as Emily sat swirling her coffee in her cup, he decided to be brave.  

"Emily, as smart as you are, surely you could have thought of something worthwhile to do.  Why did you choose instead to make so much trouble?"

As Steve waited for Emily's reply, it seemed the world slowed down.  She swirled her coffee and took a swallow.  A robin lighted on a branch in the cherry tree, baby birds cried for their dinner.  The robin fed them and flew away again.  A garter snake, harmless little green thing that it was, slithered through the grass at their feet, looking for a cool spot to shelter it from the heat of the day.  A fat bumblebee hummed to himself as he moved from flower to flower in the nearby beds.  Finally, Emily looked at him, and he could see years of pain and regret in her eyes.

"Because I couldn't be good," she whispered, and as she continued to talk, her words took on the cadence of a haunted chant.  "Not like I wanted to, not like my parents.  I could never be as good as them.  I could never be as kind and compassionate and loving and forgiving as they were.  I could never be as thoughtful and as patient and as generous and . . . I could never be as good as them."

Emily had begun rocking slightly, and her words had all been whispered harshly as she fought to hold off the threatening sobs again.  Steve had to lean forward to hear her, and each time she rocked forward, her bangs brushed his forehead.  Sensing her need for comfort, he gathered her in his arms again and helped her out of the wheel chair and onto the bench beside him.  As he held her close and rubbed her back, she continued to murmur to him all the painful truths she had hidden inside herself for years.

"All I ever wanted was to be like them," she said softly, "to be good like them, to be loved like them, but I just couldn't do it.  I couldn't be like them, no matter how hard I tried.  No matter how smart I was, I couldn't be like them, and I always felt like something inside me was broken because of it.  So, one day, I decided to be really bad because I just couldn't be really good."

"It was easier to fail for lack of trying than to try and fail again," Steve suggested.

"Exactly," Emily agreed, "but in the end, I wasn't even good at being bad.  I never really hurt anybody.  I just embarrassed a few powerful people, and that's when they sent me to Washington."

"I know what happened there, Em," Steve said gently, trying to save her some of the pain that would come from telling the story.  "I know about the China virus and the electron bomb, and I know what they did when you refused to help anymore."

"Oh, ok."

"And then you decided to be a cop, right."

"Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged.  "Penitence.  An act of contrition."

Steve sighed.  She had told him so much today, but still she would only trust him so far.  Maybe he could nudge her a little._  Lord knows she needs to confide in someone._

"Come on, Em.  I know there's more to it than that."

She shot him a sideways look, but didn't ask how he could tell.  By now, she realized he really did know when she was dissembling, and he wouldn't tell her how he knew if she asked.

She studied her hands again.  "I thought if I could do something heroic, some grand gesture . . ." She just trailed off.  "I don't know anymore what I thought, Chief.  I guess I figured it would make me a good person.  Maybe my parents . . ."  Again, she couldn't finish the thought.  "But you can't make a silk purse from a sow's ear, can you?"

Steve really didn't know how to answer her, so he didn't try.  Instead, he just told her what he knew was the truth.  "Emily, you shut down BioGen back in Pennsylvania because you had the courage and the knowledge to do so.  You paid a terrible price for it, but you got the job done."

"Yeah, after they poisoned half my home town."

"Nevertheless, you got the job done before they could inflict the same suffering on the rest of the world."

"So, my friends and family are considered acceptable losses, huh?"

"I didn't say that, but Em, you did a good thing."  He would not let her put words in his mouth, and he would not let her misconstrue what he did say, though he knew it would be damnably difficult because she was a hell of a lot smarter than him.  He decided to keep it simple, not try to prove anything, but just state the facts.

"I can't convince you that you are a good person if you don't want to see yourself that way, Emily, and I can't make you believe your parents love you completely and unconditionally just as you are if you don't want to believe it.  But I can tell you, without a doubt, that I would be dead if you hadn't saved me, and I can tell you Giancarlo Moretti would be dead instead of getting to know his son and grandson if you hadn't looked after him.  And Vinne Gaudino would be a free man, laughing at the law and hurting honest, decent people if it weren't for you taking care of Moretti, Leigh Ann would still be out to get me, and Rossi, Marino, and Velasquez would still be in the LAPD, and Tim Brown would still be with the FBI.  And I can tell you that the BioGen virus would have killed thousands or maybe millions of people instead of hundreds if you hadn't done something about it.

"You are not your parents, Emily.  You've lived a different life in a different time, and that has made you a different person.  You have made a contribution to the world, Emily.  You have made it better and safer, and you have made lots of people richer for having known you.  You have made your parents proud, and you have made my son a very happy man.  That might not make a good person in your book, I don't know what your criteria are, but it damned sure ought to count for something."

To Steve's great surprise, Emily didn't have much to say in reply.  She just shifted slightly on the bench beside him, rested her head tiredly on his shoulder, and said, "You're a good man, Chief."

For a long time, Steve and Emily sat still on the bench as the afternoon shadows lengthened.  He could hear neighborhood children chanting a jump-rope song that had been old when he was a child, and he thought Emily dozed a little, getting some much needed rest.  The robin came and went, feeding its brood of chicks.  A squirrel chattered in the bushes edging the yard.  A butterfly came to sit on Emily's lap.  After a while, she reached out and flicked it gently away with one long slender finger.  Then she spoke.

"Chief, can I tell you a secret?"

Steve laughed softly.  "Haven't you done that already?"

She looked up at him askance.  "You have a point."  She brushed some invisible thing from the spot on the blanket where the butterfly had alighted, and spoke again.  "Seriously, though, if I tell you something, can I have your word you won't repeat it?"

"Of course," Steve said casually, even as cold fear clenched his heart.  Knowing Emily, her secret could be anything from an extraordinary fondness for pink bunny slippers to a capital crime, though he knew if she had done something illegal, there would have to be mitigating circumstances.

"I . . . I can't be a cop any more.  I spoke with Alex yesterday morning.  I've been trying stem-cell therapy, and it hasn't worked."

"I see," was all Steve could say.  Somehow, it was enough.

"I knew you would understand," Emily said, and Steve realized he did, more than he was willing to admit.  She was being forced to quit the LAPD for medical reasons, and he was leaving because he wasn't sure he was fit for the job any more.  Neither of them had any choice in the matter.

Again, they fell silent until Emily explained, "I didn't want to say anything until after the trial.  I didn't want them worrying about it, because if I lose, it doesn't matter anyway."

"Emily, you're not going to lose, I promise."

She slid him a doubtful glance.  "You're like my mom, you know that?"

"Am I?  How?"

"You take a lot on faith."

"That may be so," Steve said, "but has she ever broken a promise to you?"

"No, she hasn't."

"Well, there you have it, then."

"I suppose so."

Emily settled against him again, and they sat together in companionable silence as evening crept in.  Again, Emily nodded off for a bit.  Bees buzzed drowsily on their last round before they found a comfortable spot to rest for the night.  The robins settled in with their chicks.  In the waning light, Steve saw the garter snake slither away, presumably to look for one last patch of sun to soak up now that the evening was cooling.  The mothers of the neighborhood children called them home.  Steve sighed.

"Em?"

"Chief?"

"Can I tell you a secret?"

"Absolutely."

"I'm retiring tomorrow.  Only Maribeth knows, but she doesn't really understand.  I couldn't tell her.  I think I'm getting too old for the job."

"I see."  It was all Emily could say.  Somehow, it was enough.

They sat just a few more minutes as the setting sun and the evening sky changed from molten gold, to pink, to blood red, royal purple, deep blue, and finally, silvery dusk.  Then Emily sat up straight, and Steve helped her back into the wheelchair.

"I suppose we ought to go in," she said.

"I suppose," he replied, handing her the tray of coffee things so he could push her chair for her.

"What in the world are we going to tell them when ask what we were doing out here all afternoon?"

"That we sat in the garden, drank coffee, and talked for hours," Steve replied.

Emily nodded, smiling, "And that we are both ok."

Unable to suppress a chuckle, Steve said, "Works for me," and wheeled Emily back into the welcoming golden glow that poured from the patio doors.


	30. Trial, Part One

**(Chapter 30.  Valley Bureau HQ, Judge Greer's courtroom, July 2, 2033.)**

****

"I can't accept this," Tanis said, handing the letter back to Steve.

"Why not?" he asked, refusing to take it.

"Because I know you better than that," she said.  "This is not what you really want.  You're the type to die with your boots on, not ride off into the sunset.  Something else is going on.  What is it?"

"Nothing else is going on," Steve insisted.  "I've just decided it's time.  Maribeth is resigning today, too, and after Emily's trial, we're renting a boat and sailing to Catalina."

Tanis eyed him carefully, "I don't believe you," she said.

"Why would I lie?"

"I didn't say you're lying, Steve," she corrected him, "but this wouldn't be the first time you haven't told me the whole truth."

"Whatever.  Just file the letter, will you?"

Ignoring his request for the moment, Tanis picked up the phone and said, "Linda, would you send in Commander Banks, please?"

Steve turned and watched in wide-eyed surprise as Cheryl walked in.  Tanis handed her the letter and said, "You were right.  He's quitting."

Cheryl gave Steve a hurt look and took the letter from Tanis.  Her frown deepened as she read, and, finally finishing, she handed the letter back to Tanis and said, "That doesn't sound like you, Steve.  What's the real story, and why didn't you tell me, first?"

"Good God!" he snapped disgustedly.  "The two of you are worse than my wife!  What does it matter why I'm leaving?  I've spent over half a century with the LAPD, haven't I earned some R&R?"

"Of course you have," Cheryl said.  "You're entitled to that and much, much more, but that doesn't answer my question.  Why are you quitting?"

Steve slumped back in the chair, knowing these women weren't going to let him off easy.  He fell back on some of the same half-truths he had told Maribeth the day before.  "Because I've been a cop almost too long now, and I've had enough of it.  I've been called away from too many special family occasions, and I've put my life at risk too many times.  I want to be able to walk away now, saying I loved my job and I did it well, not a year from now, saying I got fed up with it and should have quit while I was ahead.  It's just time, that's all!"

"I see," Cheryl replied, her wide grin telling Tanis she believed him while her eyes told Steve she knew there was far more that he was holding back, but she wouldn't push him here and now.  "Well, then, I wish you the best."  She moved over and gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  "We'll miss you."

Steve smiled back warily.  "Thanks," he said, and Cheryl knew he was thanking her, not just for the good wishes, but for not pressing him as well.  "I know you'll miss me, but you'll do just fine on your own, Deputy Chief Banks."

Cheryl gasped in surprise and she looked from Steve to Tanis.  Tanis knew she was being put on the spot, and she didn't appreciate it, but the fact was, she could think of no better candidate for the job.  Shrugging, she said, "So, do you think you're ready for it?"

Grinning, Cheryl nodded.  "You bet!"

"So, you'll accept when I recommend you to the commissioners?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Good," Steve said, "then that leaves me just one more favor to ask."

"Which is?" Tanis prompted.

"Hold this story until we see how Emily's trial goes today," Steve suggested.  "If it's looking good for her, save it for tomorrow, and let her get some favorable press.  If it's looking bad, release it today and make a big hoopla about it, to draw some of the attention away from her."

Tanis looked to Cheryl, and, getting the slightest of nods, she said, "Ok, I will hold it up to twenty-four hours, but this time tomorrow, no matter what happens with the Lieutenant, we put it in the press release."

"Thanks, Tanis, that's all I'm asking."

Tanis came around her desk then, extending her hand to shake, and surprised herself and Steve by pulling him into a hug.  After a moment, she released him and stepped away slightly, tears in her eyes.

"So, um, can we call you now and then for advice?" she asked, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue she had pulled from the box on her desk.

Steve seemed to consider her request seriously for a few moments, then, in a voice rough with emotion, he said, "No, but I might call you from time to time when I think you need my help."

Tanis smiled and nodded.  "Just like your dad, huh?  Well, I guess that will have to do."  She moved back behind her desk, ready to return to work and said, "Ok, then, I will forward this to the commissioners tomorrow morning along with my recommendation for a new Deputy Chief.  I know you will be at the trial today, but I will expect you to spend the rest of the week familiarizing your proposed replacement with all the aspects of your job."

"Yes, ma'am," Steve agreed.

"Dismissed."

Steve and Cheryl turned and walked out, Steve wondering just how long it would be until she pressed him about his real reasons for retiring, Cheryl wondering if he had even told his wife the truth.

"So, how do you think it's going in there?" Steve asked nervously as he and Cheryl waited with the other witnesses in Emily's trial.  There were almost fifty individuals who had been called to testify for the prosecution, himself and Cheryl included, most of them unwilling citizens who had to be subpoenaed and were only there under threat of contempt charges.

"Steve, I haven't seen or heard any more than you have," Cheryl said as patiently as she could, "so, for the third time, I don't know any more than you do."  She really felt for Steve.  She knew how much he wanted to be in the courtroom to show his support for Emily, but as a witness in the case, he could not be permitted to hear the testimony of others.

"At least it's going quickly," Steve muttered as the third witness for the day came out.  "It started at nine, and now it's not quite ten, and they're already up to the fourth person."

"Only because she forfeited her right to a jury trial," Cheryl said.  "We didn't have to sit through the selection process."

"Yeah.  She must have a pretty clever defense planned," Steve said.  "Technically speaking, she did everything they are accusing her of, and they always say, if there's any chance you're guilty, go with the jury because they might be swayed by emotion . . ."

". . . and if you know you're completely innocent, take the judge, he won't be confused by the lawyers."  Cheryl smiled encouragingly as she finished the thought for him and decided not to suggest to Steve that in her depressed state, Emily might just be ensuring a conviction to punish herself for some perceived wrongdoing.

"So, how do you think it's going for her?"

"What did I just tell you?" Cheryl said a bit irritably.  "I didn't know two minutes ago, and I still don't know now, ok?"

"Ok.  Sorry I asked."

"Talia White," the bailiff called, and a woman of about fifty stood and stalked into the courtroom.  

Steve knew Ms. White was one of the cell phone theft 'victims' simply because he had already known all the other witnesses long before he ever met Emily.  The only reason she was there was that Steve had assigned someone to write down the phone numbers from which Emily had called while she was on the run with Moretti as the calls came in, just in case she knew a way to erase them from the computer database after she phoned.  He wished now he hadn't done so, because it was creating even more problems for Em, but at the same time, he had to smile.  It had been the only time he had succeeded in outwitting her, and he was proud of that accomplishment.

A noise at the entrance to the waiting room drew Steve's attention away from the retreating form of Ms. White, and as he turned his small grin turned to a look of open-mouthed surprise as he saw Ron Wagner entering the room in a motorized wheelchair.  Steve sat gaping as his friend spoke a moment to the bailiff, requesting assistance to get to the witness stand when his turn came, and then rolled over toward him and Cheryl, a smile of greeting on his face.  

The last time Steve had been to visit Ron, he was flat on his back in the Barstow Community Hospital, paralyzed from the neck down, unable to speak, breathe on his own, or even swallow to keep from drowning in his own saliva.  Amanda had left them together in order to go get some much-needed rest in her hotel room, and while she was gone, Ron had begged Steve, by blinking his eyes in Morse code, to make him a promise.  Ron had wanted Steve's word that if he was showing no improvement in a month's time, he would help him die.  Steve had been unable to swear such an oath, and, a few minutes later, when Hannah had dropped in, he had beaten a hasty retreat all the way back to LA.  He had found many excuses since then for why he couldn't go by for a visit, even after Ron returned to LA and took up residence in Community General's rehabilitation wing, and now, as his friend came to a stop before him, Steve lowered his gaze in shame.

Cheryl suddenly needed to stretch her legs, leaving the two men in relative privacy.  Steve couldn't look Ron in the eye.  It took a little effort, but Ron reached out and placed his hand on Steve's arm.  Steve tensed, and stared hard at the hand, still unable to face his friend.

"I understand why you couldn't come back," Ron said in a low gravelly voice that was nothing like what it used to be.

"I . . . I . . . "

"It's ok."

The hand squeezed, and suddenly, Steve couldn't bear to look at it any longer.  He stared hard at the blue floor tile beside his left foot, heart pounding, stomach churning, and forced himself to swallow back the myriad of emotions that assaulted him.

"Steve," Ron spoke softly, "I understand, and it's ok.  I had no right to ask you that . . . favor, and frankly, now I am glad that you couldn't agree to it.  It took some time, and for a while, I cursed you for every breath of air that was pumped into my body, but now, I've tried stem cell therapy, and it's working.  I can walk a little, and I can hold Amanda's hand, and play Chutes and Ladders with my grandchildren.  I'm getting better every day, and they say in another year or so, I will have recovered completely.  If you had done what I asked, I'd be dead now.  How could I ever be angry with you for refusing my request?"

Steve took a deep breath, finally looked his friend in the eye, and saw nothing but warm affection there.  With a smile and a sigh of relief, he said, "I'm sorry I didn't come visit.  I just, well . . . you know . . . "

Ron nodded.  "I think I do.  Don't worry about it; it was my fault.  Just drop by a little more often in the future, ok?"

Steve's smile broadened to a grin.  "You know I'll do that."

Seeing that the two men were still on good terms, Cheryl came back to her seat to wait her turn to testify.  As she made herself comfortable, Ron asked, "So, how do you think it's going in there?"

As Ron and Steve shared a confused look, Cheryl leaned her head back against the wall behind her and started to laugh.  "I feel like I'm on a road trip with a couple of kids."

Emily had hired a lawyer, Bruce Delong, because she wasn't certain she could handle the strain of representing herself.  Like her mother, she had a tendency to break into giggling fits when faced with stressful situations that did not allow her to take physical action, and she knew such behavior would cause Judge Greer to charge her with contempt.  She liked Bruce above all the other attorneys she had interviewed because, contrary to the practice of most lawyers she knew, he managed to keep his answers to her initial questions short and to the point.

They had met for the first time while she was still in the hospital, and her condition hadn't seemed to faze him at all.  Although she could tell that he felt sympathy for her, this didn't affect the way he acted with her, and he had even been able to help her leave her bed and journey to the bathroom without running for cover.  In fact, Emily still wondered if he realized she had simply been testing his ability to follow her instructions, even when they made him uncomfortable.

Bruce had told her directly that he believed she was innocent, and that had been a great boost to her flagging confidence.  She knew that her family believed in her, it went without saying, but to have a complete stranger, believe that too, had done her a world of good.

As they worked together to prepare her case, Emily never let Bruce forget why she chose him to represent her.  If he argued with her decisions, she simply joked, "Who's paying whom here?  The one who writes the checks gives the orders."  Whenever he started to ramble she reminded him that Judge Greer couldn't bear blathering lawyers, and knew more about the law than any lawyer around, so the less he said, the better.  The day before the trial, they had differed over his opening statement.  It seemed to her that he was trying to prove her innocence, and she made him change it to show that it was never in doubt.  Bruce had been forced to capitulate; there was no question that he had found himself the most demanding, controlling, micromanaging client ever, but he had to admit that, even before the trial began, he was already a much better defense attorney than he had been.

As U.S. District Attorney Warren Bressler returned to his seat, Bruce rose to cross-examine the latest witness.  As per his client's instructions, he was going to ask this woman the same questions he had the other three individuals before her.  After a few pleasantries designed to make the witness feel comfortable speaking with him, he began his questioning.

"Ms. White, was your cell phone returned to you promptly after it went missing?"  Bruce was careful not to say stolen.  As far as anyone could prove so far, she had only misplaced it.

"Yes, within two days I had it back."

"And had it been used to place any expensive long distance calls?"

"No, as far as I could tell, it hadn't been used at all."

"Then why did you press charges?"

"I didn't," Talia said irritably.

"Well, then, why are you here?" Bruce feigned confusion, and Talia White's temper rose along with the coloring in her cheeks.

"Because _that_ man," she pointed an accusatory finger at Warren Bressler, "sent me a subpoena."

"Ms. White, did the two-day loss of your cell phone make you feel like the victim of a crime?"

"No.  I was inconvenienced, yes," she admitted, "but knowing what I know now about who probably had it and why, I don't really mind.  In fact, if it had been safe for Lieutenant Stephens to ask me for it, I would have willingly given it to her, had I known the situation.  I didn't feel like a victim until one of Mr. Bressler's henchmen served me with papers, embarrassing me at my place of business, in front of my supervisor and a client.  If you're really looking for a crime in this, I can give you two.  The harassment I have suffered at the hands of Mr. Bressler, and the money he's stealing from my wallet right now."  

Talia was quickly growing irate, not with the defendant who had supposedly wronged her, but with the prosecutor who was ostensibly championing her rights.  Bruce smiled pleasantly, giving her time to work up a good head of steam, then he feigned confusion and said, "Money he's stealing?"

Talia nodded.  "That's right.  I work in sales, on commission, and I should be closing a deal right now."

When the witness suggested that she knew Emily had taken her cell phone, both Judge Greer and D.A. Bressler looked to Bruce Delong, the judge expecting an objection, and the D.A. preparing to argue against it.  When Bruce simply smiled and continued his questioning, Bressler sat back muttering softly in confusion, and Judge Greer raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly in surprised approval of the young lawyer's decision not to waste the court's time arguing such a small point. 

"So, Ms. White, is it safe to say you would just as soon go about your business and consider this matter closed?"

"Absolutely!" Talia replied adamantly.  "As far as I'm concerned, I lost my cell phone, and it was returned to me, not stolen."

"Thank you, Ms. White.  No further questions."

"Redirect?" Judge Greer asked the prosecution.

"Yes, thank you, Your Honor," Warren Bressler replied and stood to address his witness once again.  Showing her a ledger into which dozens of phone numbers had been meticulously copied, he asked, "Ms. White, if your cell phone was merely lost, how do you account for the call placed from it to the defendant's answering service during the time it was missing?"

Talia shrugged, "Computer error."

"This isn't a computer record, ma'am," Bressler reminded her.  "These numbers were hand copied from the defendant's answering service computer system before the she had a chance to erase them from there and from your cell phone service provider."

"Objection!" Bruce Delong said, "There is no evidence supporting the claim that my client ever had the ability, let alone the opportunity, to erase any calling records either from the cell phone company or from her answering service."

"Excuse me," Bressler said before the judge could rule.  "Before _someone_ could erase them, for they were definitely erased, as the recording officer's affidavit indicates.  So, Ms. White, I ask you again, how do you account for your cell phone number being in this log?"

"Human error," she said derisively.  "The officer mistook a seven for a one or something like that.  There were no calls placed from my phone.  If there had been, my bill would indicate it."

As she watched Bressler clench and unclench his fists and bite the inside of his cheek in frustration at his lack of progress, Emily frantically scribbled a note to her lawyer on a long yellow legal pad.  It was only five words, and so, a waste of paper, but it was about to have a huge effect on her case.

"No further questions," Bressler finally said through clenched teeth.

"Thank you, Ms. White, for your cooperation.  You may step down," Judge Greer said.  As Talia walked away, he added, "Mr. Bressler, you may call your next witness."

As Bressler began to speak, Emily showed Bruce the note.  It took just a moment to read it, and in that time, Bressler had checked his list and was about to call the next witness.

"The prosecution would like to call . . . "

"Your Honor, the defense would like to stipulate to the testimony of prosecution witnesses numbers five through forty-three at this time," Bruce interrupted.

". . . Mr. . . . You . . . you . . .But I . . . You _what_?"  Bressler was too taken aback to say anything more coherent.

As Bressler stammered impotently, Judge Greer waited impatiently for an objection, and Bruce tried hard not to grin like the Cheshire cat; Emily could be seen sitting at the defense table, trembling violently, and clutching her head in both hands.  Finally, out of patience with the flabbergasted prosecutor, the judge asked Bruce, "Mr. Delong, are you taking this action at the request of your client?"

"I am, Your Honor."

"Do you deem it to be based in solid reasoning?"

"I don't know, Your Honor, she has told me more than once, she's just paying me to follow instructions."  

People in the courtroom laughed at the comment, and Judge Greer's frown deepened.  "I see.  Would you object to my questioning her directly?"

Bruce looked to Emily who was still averting her eyes and shivering uncontrollably.  "I don't," Bruce said, "but she might, Sir.  May I confer with her a moment?"

"By all means," the judge said indulgently.

For a few moments, Bruce whispered in Emily's ear, and then with a shaking hand, she reached for her water glass and took a long drink.  As she began to rise from her seat to address the judge, Greer said, "You may remain seated, Lieutenant Stephens.  I am aware of your medical condition."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Emily said in a tight voice.  "What did you wish to ask me, Sir?"

"Do you understand what it means to stipulate to a witness' testimony?"

"Yes, Sir," she replied in a slightly stronger voice, though she was still a bit pale.

"Explain it to me so I can be sure there will be no claim of inadequate representation later."

"We accept the testimony as true, have no dispute with it, and decline the right to cross examine."

"I see," the judge was thoughtful.  "Are you sure you want to do this with the testimony of thirty-nine witnesses?"

"Oh, yes, Your Honor," Emily sounded quite certain.

"Why?"

"Because thirty one of them are alleged victims of cell phone theft, and I see no point in wasting the next eight hours of the court's time hearing the same testimony repeated again and again."

"What about the other eight?" Greer asked.

"Several others are individuals with whom I conducted business under an assumed name, but as I have kept all the accounts current, no financial loss can be proven, and all the records come back to my real social security number.  I have no fear of accepting their testimony without question, because I believe you will find no crime was committed."

"Your Honor," Bressler called out, "how can the defendant know what Your Honor will decided?"

"Is that an objection, Mr. Bressler?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Overruled!"

Emily stifled a cough, and took another drink of water as the judge explained, "She said she believed I would find no crime was committed, not that she knew I would.  Rest assured, Mr. Bressler, I will examine all the records and testimony closely."

"Lieutenant Stephens?" Greer queried, "Are you prepared to continue?"

Emily sat her water glass down and swallowed hard.  "Ye . . . ," she cleared her throat, "Yes, Sir."

"What about the three former policemen on this list?  Why are you willing to accept their testimony?"  

Emily sipped her water and took a deep breath before she spoke.  She was well aware that the judge, her lawyer, her parents, and other supporters in the courtroom were very disconcerted by her antics, but she needed to get through this motion before she asked for a break.  She needed the momentum it would create to keep her spirits up.  

Finally, she felt able to speak, and she said, "I don't deny that I collaborated with Merino, Velasquez, and Rossi to . . . take custody of Mr. Moretti.  As I was working under cover, I even led them to believe that I was willing to join them in ransoming him to Vincent Gaudino.  The only matter I take issue with is whether I kidnapped Mr. Moretti or took him into protective custody, so as far as I am concerned, the only testimony relevant to my cause is that of Mr. Moretti himself, Agent Wagner, Deputy Chief Sloan, and Commander Banks."

Judge Greer gave Emily a harsh glare and asked, "Then why did you wait until now to stipulate to this testimony?  You could have saved us an hour by doing this before the prosecution began presenting its case."

"With all due respect, Sir, I needed to see how it would play in court," Emily said ingenuously.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, if all the witnesses were angry at me, I needed a chance to turn them around" she explained.  "I couldn't just take what they said as given.  As it is, with the exceptions of Merino, Velasquez, and Rossi, they seem uniformly disgusted with the prosecution's tactics, and have no argument with me at all."

"Your Honor!"

"Overruled, Mr. Bressler.  I have sat through their testimony myself, and she's right.  None of them wanted to be here."  Turning to Emily, he asked, "You've thought this through quite carefully, haven't you, Lieutenant?"

Emily was again sitting with her head in her hands, looking down at the table, trembling.  The whole courtroom, with the exception of Warren Bressler, waited patiently for her regain her composure.

"Yes, Sir," Emily squeaked, holding out two sheets of paper to the bailiff.  She swallowed hard and sipped some more water as he delivered one copy of the list to the Judge and the other to the D.A.  Her voice once again restored to almost normal, she said, "My attorney and I have thoroughly reviewed the statements made by all the witnesses in discovery, and we are confident that individuals five through thirty-six on this list have nothing to add to the testimony of Ms. White and the three who went before her.  We are also quite certain they will all be pleased to be going home early today, except for Merino, Velasquez, and Rossi, whom I understand will be going back to prison."

The fact was, Emily and Bruce had read and reread, picked apart and reassembled, argued over, analyzed, scrutinized, and memorized every word said by every witness in the official pretrial statements that had been made so that both sides could prepare their cases.  They had agreed weeks beforehand that if the first few witnesses were beneficial to their cause, they would stipulate to the rest in order to prevent the prosecution from asking other questions that might produce new and damaging evidence or shift the witnesses' attitudes from annoyance with the prosecution to anger towards Emily.

"You realize, when I was a prosecutor, you wouldn't have been able to get away with a stunt like this, don't you?"

"Yes, Your Honor, but in this case, I think the change in the law is a benefit to all," Emily replied sincerely, and despite Bruce's insistent nudging under the table, she couldn't resist continuing, "It allows the defense to see the court's reaction to specific testimony while also making it possible to speed up proceedings when testimony will be repetitive."

"Yes, I see that," Judge Greer said archly, annoyed that the defendant would dare offer him her opinion on the law.  "Very well, then," he continued with a sigh.  "Let it be entered into the record that the defense has accepted the testimony given in discovery by prosecution witnesses five through thirty-six as true and will be forfeiting any right to cross examine those witnesses at a later time."

"But Your Honor!" Bressler objected once more, and as he cried out, Emily was suddenly trembling and hiding her face again.  "You're letting them foreclose on my . . . my entire strategic plan for the day!"

Judge Greer focused a narrow gaze on the DA and said, "I think that is their intent, yes, Mr. Bressler, and you should be thanking them for it as they have effectively shredded the testimony of your first four witnesses.  If you have been doing your job, I am sure you are adequately prepared to continue with the remaining witnesses on your list."

A stifled whimper came from Emily's table.  

"Mr. Delong, is your client quite all right?" the judge asked.

Everyone in the room saw Emily's curls bob as she nodded affirmatively.  "Yes, Sir," Bruce replied, "she'll be fine."

"Your Honor," Bressler continued desperately, as if the woman just a few feet from him were not in obvious distress, "my case has been gutted.  The prosecution could not possibly continue at this juncture for at least another . . . hour . . . there are files that need to be brought into the courtroom, notes that need to be reviewed . . . "

"Request denied," Greer said flatly.

"But Your Honor!" Bressler nearly wailed.

"Ten minutes," Emily choked.

"I beg your pardon," Greer addressed the defense.

"Your Honor, I think my client is trying to say that the defense would not object to a ten-minute recess so that she . . . and the prosecution," Bruce stressed meaningfully, "might regain their composure."

Emily looked up then, red-faced and with tears streaming down her cheeks, pointed to Bruce, and nodded.

Shrugging, Judge Greer said, "Very well, then.  I hereby declare a ten-minute recess.  Mr. Bressler, I suggest you be ready to continue when court reconvenes."

As Bressler opened his mouth to protest, Greer said, "Use the time wisely, and be glad for it, Mr. Bressler."  Looking to Bruce and Emily, he said in a puzzled tone, "Mr. Delong, if you find your client needs more time to . . . recover . . . inform the bailiff."

"Yes, Sir," both lawyers replied, and everyone except Emily stood as the judge exited the courtroom.

As Steve, Ron, and Cheryl sat discussing the stem cell therapy that had led to Ron's dramatic recovery Talia White came back into the room.  She signed a few documents the bailiff had for her, and was quickly on her way.  

Soon after Ms. White left, another bailiff came in and said, "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please?  The defense has decided to stipulate to the testimony of numerous prosecution witnesses.  In a moment, I will call your names and you may follow my colleague, Bailiff Rusty Johnson, to a separate room where you will complete some final paperwork, after which, you will be free to go.  Once the paperwork is filed, you will not be called to testify in this case again."

Steve, Ron, and Cheryl looked at one another in surprise.  While the law had changed to allow such tactics, it was still highly unusual for either the defense or the prosecution to stipulate to testimony given in discovery once the trial was underway.  As the list of names grew longer, they began to wonder just what Emily was up to, and when they found they were the only witnesses remaining, they felt quite astonished.

Cheryl looked from one of the men to the other and said, "It would seem Lieutenant Stephens has just changed her entire game plan for this trial."

Steve grinned broadly.  "Game plan, nothing, she's reinvented the whole ballgame, and I'll bet she's the only one who knows the rules."

As the three sat wondering what would come next, Moretti entered the waiting room, a little late due to certain security measures he still had to take.  As he dodged several people on their way out of the room, he finally managed to get properly inside.  Looking at Wagner, Banks, and Sloan, he asked, "Where's everybody goin'?"

The three of them laughed at him, and then, with a jerk of his head Agent Wagner indicated that he should join them.  "Come sit down," Wagner ground out through a voice that seemed pelted with gravel, "and we can speculate together."


	31. Recess

**(Chapter 31.  Federal Courthouse conference room and cafeteria, July 2, 2033.)**

The moment the judge was out of the courtroom, Bruce took Emily's wheelchair and began pushing her out the exit that led to the lawyer-client conference rooms.  As he did so, he said, "Liv, Steven, I'm taking her to conference three.  Bailiff, please bring us a first aid kit."  Emily kept insisting she was ok, but he had to be sure.  The last thing he needed was to let the trial continue only to have a mistrial declared because his client was too ill to continue.  He wanted an acquittal, and he wasn't sure Emily could withstand having to go through it all again.

Conference room three was the nearest handicapped accessible room for lawyers and clients to meet.  As he reached the door, Bruce slapped the big blue button that made the doors swing open and wheeled Emily directly through to the small meeting area.  Even before he could ask if she was all right, she dissolved in a fit of giggles.

"Em?  Wha . . . ?  Are you all right?"

Emily just continued giggling and nodded.

"What . . . What's so funny?"

She shook her head.  "Nothing."  She giggled.  "Bressler."  More giggles.  "He's fluh . . . " Giggles interrupted again.  "Flub . . . "  Still more giggles.  "Flabbergasted."  She giggled until she ran out of air, and then continued shaking silently, too consumed by her laughter to even take a breath.

Bruce smiled at her, somewhat bemused.  Bressler's stumbling and stammering had been comical, but certainly not this funny.  Emily finally took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, began to shake, and erupted into another giggling fit.  She slowly slid down in her seat, and by the time she stopped her descent, her bottom was nearly off the seat, her head was propped up in the middle of the backrest, and she was slouching there, still giggling.  Her face was glowing red and tears still streamed down her cheeks.  

As Bruce waited for his client to regain control of herself, Steven and Olivia burst into the room, carrying between them the first aid kit the bailiff must have retrieved.  It was a monstrous thing, too large to be readily carried by one person, and Bruce supposed it contained everything that could conceivably be useful in a medical crisis in the courthouse.  Considering his client had nearly died the last time she had been in the building, he wasn't surprised that someone, somewhere had gone overboard and put even the ambulance service to shame with the amount of equipment now provided.  Still, while he was sure the kit included everything Steven and Olivia would require to tend to Emily's needs, he could easily imagine that something one person could not carry alone would be utterly impractical in many other situations, and might as well not be kept on hand at all.

"Em?" Steven gasped in mixed concern and confusion.

Emily giggled some more and waved weakly.  

"Oh, good Lord," Olivia said in that exasperated tone that only a mother knew how to use effectively.

"I called Alex.  He's on the way over," Keith said as he slipped in and then just stood quietly out of the way.

"Liv," Steven pleaded, worried and still confused, "what's wrong with her?"

"A stress response," Olivia explained, "I don't know if she inherited it from me or learned it from me, but she definitely got it from me somehow.  I used to do it all the time when I was about her age.  Something probably struck her as funny, and she couldn't get it out of her head.  Of course, trying to control it only made it worse."

Olivia moved over and crouched before her daughter.  "Em, is this why you were carrying on in the courtroom?"

Emily nodded.  "Yes, Mama," she choked out, and started to giggle again.

"Are you in any pain or discomfort, Sweetheart?"

"Chest hurts," Emily gasped between giggles, "and I have to pee."

Realizing that Liv understood her daughter's unusual behavior far better than he did, Steven had busied himself getting the equipment he would need to check Emily's vital signs, but when Emily mentioned chest pains, he frowned.  "Em, are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, Steven," she replied, now giggling only slightly as her mother helped her sit upright.  "It hurts . . . from holding it in . . . not letting it out."

"Sweetie," Liv asked stroking her daughter's curls, "do you think you can wait on the bathroom until Steven checks your vitals?  Then, when you get back, we can check again and compare the results before we decide whether we need more time or not."

"I'm fine, Mama," Emily said impatiently, and she giggled slightly.

"Maybe you are," Olivia agreed, "but I'd like to be sure."

Sighing, Em rolled up her sleeve for the blood pressure cuff and said resignedly, "Yes, Ma'am."  She couldn't contain a small spurt of laughter as Steven wrapped the cuff around her arm.

As Steven checked Em's pressure, Olivia questioned her daughter closely.  "Em, you said your chest hurts.  How does it feel?"

Emily made a confused face and said, "I feel fine now.  It was nothing."

"Ok, but still, how did it feel?"

"It just hurt, Mama.  What do you mean how did it feel?"

As Steven went to place his stethoscope against her chest, Emily pushed his hands away.  "What in the hell are you doing?" she snapped.

"Em, I need to listen to your heart," he told her calmly.

"No, no you don't, you're not my doctor.  I'm _fine, _Steven.  Just leave me be."

"Emily," Keith said coming forward to sit beside her so he could look her in the eye, "if you're fine, then it's no big deal.  Just let him listen for a little and he can put all our minds at ease."

"Daddy," Emily said in a cajoling tone that usually got her whatever she wanted, "I said I'm ok.  Don't you believe me?  Isn't my word good enough?"

For a moment, Keith looked like he would cave in and tell Steven to back off, but then there was a hard glint in his eye and he said, "No, this time, Kiddo, it's not enough."

Emily narrowed her eyes, and said, "Well, it's just going to have to be.  I don't want him touching me."

"Em!" Steven gasped, sounding hurt that she would say such a thing.

"Alex is my doctor," she insisted defiantly.  "I don't want anybody else examining me."

"Emily," Bruce said, "I need a reliable evaluation of your condition now or I am going to tell Judge Greer we need a continuance."

"Do that, and I'll fire you," Emily threatened.

"Do what you have to do," Bruce said heading for the door.  "You're not the one who'll have to face him when you keel over in the courtroom.  It will be easy for me to find a less difficult client.  How soon do you think you're likely to find a new lawyer?"  He paused a moment with his hand on the doorknob.  He wasn't bluffing, but he'd give her one last chance to change her stubborn mind.

Emily locked eyes with Bruce for a moment.  She knew he had seen through her empty threat; she also knew he was deadly serious about going to the judge.  She didn't think he wanted her to fire him, but she could tell he wouldn't let that stand in the way of doing what he thought was best for his client.  Hardheaded pride warred with common sense for a few moments, and then Emily's shoulders sagged.  

"Ok, Steven, you may examine me, briefly."

The whole room sat in silence as Steven listened to her heartbeat.  Emily stared out the window, detached from the goings on in the conference room.  Liv and Keith watched Steven's expression intently, and when he gave a puzzled frown, they exchanged a worried look.  Bruce just waited patiently for a report from the young doctor.

When Steven put down the stethoscope and started to take Emily's pulse without comment, Olivia asked, "About the pain in your chest, Em, was it a feeling of pressure, or sharp pains radiating toward your arm?  Did it feel like you couldn't get your breath?"

Emily continued looking silently out the window, the giggling fit having finally passed as the feeling of defeat sank in.  Finally, she said vacantly, "No, Mama, it was not a heart attack.  It hurt like it does when you need to laugh but know you can't, that's all.  I'm fine, really.  Now, will you help me to the ladies' room, or is poor Bruce going to start earning hazard pay?"  The joke wasn't so much a half-hearted attempt at humor as it was a reflexive smart aleck comment born of years spent humoring and haggling with her overprotective mother.

"Ok, ok," Olivia said in a soft, worried tone.  Then she brightened, "To the bathroom we go." 

Once they were gone, Bruce looked to Steven and asked, "How is she?"

Steven shrugged.  "Her pressure's a little high, and I don't like what I heard when I listened to her heart.  I need to examine her again and speak to Alex.  You might as well tell the judge now that we'll need at least another twenty minutes before we can determine whether she is fit to continue."

"What's wrong with her?" Keith asked worriedly.

Steven shrugged.  "It's hard to say," he said.  "That's why I need to talk to Alex."

"Hmmm," Bruce gave it some thought.  "That will take us to quarter past eleven.  Do you want me to suggest that he declare an early lunch, maybe reconvene at noon?"

Steven nodded.  "That would work out great," he agreed.  "It'll give Em time to calm down, and I can consult with Alex, maybe even give her something to take the edge off her anxiety.  Yes, if she's going to be fit to go back to it, she will be ready by noon."

Bruce scribbled a quick note on a legal pad and handed it out to the bailiff.  "Please come straight back and let me know what he decides."

"I think she's going to argue that there were mitigating circumstances," Ron said quietly.  He wasn't supposed to be discussing Emily's case with Steve, Moretti, and Cheryl, because all four of them were witnesses in the trial, but when more than thirty witnesses were summarily dismissed, none of them could resist speculating on Em's strategy.  "Most of the prosecution's evidence is incontrovertible.  She can't prove she's innocent, because she's not, so she's trying to get the judge to see her side of things."

Moretti shook his head.  "No, no way, that's not Em."  

"What makes you so certain?" Ron asked.

"Look Wagner," he replied.  "Ya called her in ta do a job, but I'm the one spent three weeks on the run with her.  She's a 'no excuses' kind of person.  If she's done somethin', she'll tell ya, 'Yeah, I did it.  Now, what're ya gonna do about it?' but she ain't gonna make up no lame excuses ta explain it away. If she's sorry, she'll say so, but she still won't tell ya a story to make it seem all right."

"So, you think she's planning to throw herself on the mercy of the court, then?" Cheryl asked.

"I ain't sure she knows what she plans ta do just yet, but she ain't gonna whine about no mitigatin' circumstances."

"I agree with Moretti," Steve said, "but I don't think she's going to just go down without a fight, either.  She's up to something."

"Well now, that's a revelation," Cheryl said sarcastically.  "Steve, she's been up to something since the day she walked into your office."

Steve rolled his eyes at her.  "You know what I mean."  When Cheryl just grinned, he put her on the spot.  "So, what do you think she's up to?"

Cheryl shrugged.  "I see no point in guessing.  I'll probably be wrong."  She still had a bad feeling that Em was deliberately sabotaging herself in the courtroom, but she didn't want to worry Steve with her thoughts; and she fervently hoped she was wrong.

Before Steve could press her for a real answer, the bailiff approached them and said, "Excuse me, folks, but Judge Greer has decided at the defense's request to take an early lunch.  Court will reconvene at eleven forty-five.  Why don't you go get yourselves something to eat?"

"Court will reconvene at eleven forty-five," the bailiff told Bruce and then he stepped back out into the hall.

"Why so long?" Emily asked.

"Steven and I thought it would be for the best," Bruce said.

"Oh, I see, and what oracle did you consult for this advice?"

"Em," Steven said, "Your blood pressure is up, your giggling is liable to have you jailed for contempt, and I really don't like what I heard when I listened to your heart a few minutes ago.  Alex is on his way, and I'm going to consult with him, ask him to prescribe something to calm you down, maybe even ask him to recommend a postponement to the judge."

Slowly, painfully, Emily got to her feet.  "Steven, don't you dare!  Don't any of you dare start making decisions for me!"

"But, Sweetheart," Liv began, "we can put this off until you are stronger.  Judge Greer might be strict, but he's also a fair and compassionate man.  If Alex deems you unfit to stand trial . . . "

"No!  Mama, I am fit to stand trial now."

"Em, if we wait . . . "

She turned on Keith.  "Wait?  For what, Daddy?  For me to go mad with anxiety?  For the prosecution to dig up some more witnesses?  No!  I need to get this over now!"

Emily's hand went to her chest, and she turned paper white.  She sat in her wheelchair with a plop and gasped for breath.  As she fought for air, she continued to speak.  "The stress . . . of the trial . . . is no worse . . . than not knowing. . . I need  . . . to know . . . what comes next . . . if I am to go on."

She stopped talking then, and just sat there, eyes closed, in obvious pain, fighting for air.  She didn't fight or argue when Steven checked her vitals and tutted over her, but when he attached a mask to a portable oxygen cylinder and put it over her face she pushed him weakly away.

"Leave me be . . . Leave me be . . . I'll be . . . ok."

Steve and Cheryl walked through the courthouse cafeteria line getting their own meals as well as something for Ron, who couldn't yet manage to carry a tray, and Moretti, who was keeping him company at a table already.

"She's found some loophole, something that makes everything she did legal," Steve said.  "With so many laws on the books, she could probably prove that black is white and north is south and make the prosecution disappear in a sea of red tape if she really wanted to."

"Yeah, I suppose."

Steve laughed slightly.  "You don't sound too convinced."

"Oh, there's no doubt that she's an extraordinarily bright and capable young woman, Steve, but don't you think you're overestimating her just a little?"

"Oh, I might be exaggerating some," he conceded, "but I'm sure she's going to be acquitted.  She must have something up her sleeve.  Otherwise, she wouldn't have let all those witnesses go without questioning them."

"If you say so."

Steve stopped in his tracks.  "What's the matter, Cheryl?  Don't you want her to go free?  Do you really think she deserves to go to jail?"

"No, Steve," she said sincerely, "not at all."

"Well, then, what's up?"

Cheryl sighed and said, "I wasn't going to say anything about this.  I didn't want to worry you, but I don't think I'd be a very good friend if I didn't mention the possibility only to see you blindsided if I'm right."

Steve frowned in confusion and said, "Blindsided?  By what?"

As they paid for their lunches, Cheryl indicated with a nod of her head a table off in the corner where she and Steve could sit relatively undisturbed.  As he went over and got settled, she carried Ron and Moretti's meals to them.  "We'll be over in a little bit," she said.  "Right now, we have some private business to discuss."  

"Ok, Cheryl," Steve began again when she came to join him, "what do you think is going to happen that might 'blindside' me if you don't tell me about it now?"

 "Well, Emily's been through a lot."

"Yeah, and?"

"Well, in her life, a lot of bad things have happened as a result of things she did.  It wasn't her fault, but some of her ideas caused a lot of people to die."

"You're talking about the China virus and the electron bomb, aren't you?"  Steve was suddenly defensive.  In the months since she had saved his life, he had gotten to know and care very deeply for the young policewoman, and he wouldn't tolerate anyone making any kind of accusations against her.

"Hey, relax, Steve, I don't blame her for any of that," Cheryl said quickly, trying to prevent her long-time friend from losing his temper with her.  "She was young and trusting, and she was used.  That's all there is to it."

"Ok, then why bring it up now?"

"Well, what if she blames herself?"

Steve frowned in thought for a few moments and then said, "I think I see where you're headed, but explain it for me."

"Steve, I'm probably wrong."

"Yeah," he agreed, "you probably are, but tell me what you were going to say anyway."

"Well, it's just possible that she's setting herself up for a conviction, maybe as a penance for all the terrible things that people did with her ideas."

Steve became very still as he realized that Cheryl could be right about the real method behind Emily's madness.  When he spoke, it was in a desolate tone.  "She's just clever enough to pull it off, too, without the judge or her lawyer even knowing, isn't she?"

Cheryl placed a sympathetic hand on his arm.  "I'm sorry, Steve, and like I said, I hope I'm wrong."

He patted her hand, and in a quiet voice said, "I know, Cheryl, I know."

"She's pretty mad at us," Steven warned Alex when he met him outside the courthouse.  "She doesn't want to postpone the trial, but I really think we should.  I don't think she is physically strong enough to go through with it right now."

Alex looked at the worried young man and said, "No offence, Steven, but I'm not sure you're the best one to make that judgment right now.  You're in love with her and understandably want to protect her at all costs.  I think you did the right thing in calling me."

The two men walked into the conference room, to find Emily and her parents arguing.

"Daddy, I said, 'No', and that's what I meant," Emily insisted.  "Not, 'I'll think about it,' not, 'maybe.'  I want to get this over and there is no way I am going to ask Judge Greer to postpone the trial."

"Sweetheart," Olivia said, "I just think if you waited until you get a little better . . . "

"Dammit, Mama, I'm not going to get better!  I . . . "  Emily stopped short, and covered her mouth with one hand.  Alex saw the horror on her face as she realized that she had just revealed the one hard truth from which she had been trying to protect her loved ones.

"Emmy?" Olivia gasped.

"Kiddo, what are you talking about?" Keith asked.

Alex moved to stand protectively behind his patient and put his hands on her shoulders.  When she didn't respond to her father's question for several moments, he asked, "Would you like me to explain?"

Her only answer was a nod of the head, so Alex motioned for Keith and Liv, Steven and Bruce to sit down while he told them that Emily's recovery had come to a grinding halt.

"As soon as I took over her care, Emily requested that we try stem-cell therapy to repair her damaged heart muscle and to regenerate the kidney we had to remove," Alex began, knowing that this was the first time these people, who so dearly loved his patient, had heard any of this.  "That was two months ago, and it didn't take.  We tried three different injections with no success.  It appears that the BioGen virus has changed her cellular structure to the point that the stem-cells don't know they're supposed to replicate and form new tissues in her body."

"What about a transplant?" Keith asked.

"There's a cloning study at the Mayo clinic," Liv suggested.

"UVA has an artificial kidney implant ready for human trials," Steven said, and Alex raised a curious eyebrow.  He hadn't heard about that, and he thought he was current with all the research that affected his patients.

"Is she fit for trial?" Bruce needed to know.  They really didn't need court to reconvene if Emily couldn't withstand the stress.  It would irritate and inconvenience Judge Greer and probably count against her in the end.

He smiled and tried patiently to answer each of their concerns.  "Keith, a transplant isn't a good option for the same reason the stem-cell injections didn't work.  Because of the BioGen infection, Emily's body would just reject it.  Liv, Emily and I have discussed the possibility of cloning, and she isn't interested . . . "

"Emily, I really think you ought to at least try . . . " Olivia began lecturing in a 'mother knows best' tone.

"Mama . . . "

"No, Olivia," Alex interrupted firmly before the mother and daughter could get into an argument about it.  "Emily and I discussed the possibility, and she is dead set against it, for what I think are very good reasons.  As her doctor, I respect her decision, and I think you should, too.  Perhaps, at a later time, when she is under less stress, the two of you can discuss her reasoning, but for now, I think it would be best for her if you would just accept that she isn't going to do it."

Olivia looked like she wanted to slap him, but Alex stood bravely behind his patient and faced the angry mother.  After a moment, Olivia bowed her head briefly.  When she looked up again, her expression had softened, and she reached across the table to take her daughter's hand.  

"Emily, baby, I'm sorry," she said softly.  "Try to understand.  No matter how grown up you get, you'll always be my little girl.  Sometimes it's hard to accept that I don't always know what's best for you any more, especially when you've been so ill.  It is your decision, and maybe later you can help me understand why you have made this choice, but for now, Alex is right.  It's not something we should be arguing about."

Emily smiled and said, "Thank you, Mama, for trying to understand.  Basically, I just don't want to be a lab rat."  She looked at Steven and said, "I hadn't heard about the artificial kidney trials, but I wouldn't be interested in them, either, for the same reason."

"You won't be able to go back to work, Kiddo," Keith told her.

Emily smiled sadly.  "I know, Daddy, but if I don't win this trial, that won't matter anyway.  That's why I didn't want to tell you until after."

"Speaking of the trial," Bruce said to Alex, "is she well enough to go through with it?"

"Well, if I were to go on just what Steven told me when he called the hospital, I would have to say no," Alex said, "but I would very much prefer to examine my patient for myself, in private."  He turned to Emily and said, "Since the judge has called an early lunch, why don't you give your folks your order?  While we are talking, they can go get whatever it is you want."

Emily smiled and turned to her father.  "Daddy, you know what I like.  Surprise me.  Just don't get anything too heavy or spicy, ok?"

"Ok, Sweetheart, one surprise coming up," Keith told her and took his wife's hand and led her out of the conference room.

"We'll be back, soon," Olivia said as she followed him out.

"We'll _all_ be back soon," Bruce said, as he stood up from the table and jerked his head as an indication that Steven should come along, too, "so we can decide what to do next.  First, I need to know about your medical condition, and I will need that information from an objective source."  Looking gravely at Alex, he said, "Dr. Martin, if she is not well enough to continue, you need to be honest with me.  Judge Greer does not like games, and if it even only appears we are using her medical condition to play for sympathy, things could go very badly for her indeed."

Alex nodded.  "I understand," he said.  "I want what's best for my patient, Counselor, and I will not mislead you just to get this trial over with quickly.  If she is unfit, I will tell you."

Steve looked up from his lunch, for which he had lost all appetite after Cheryl's suggestion about Emily's motives, and he saw Olivia, Keith, Steven, and Bruce Delong in line purchasing soup, salads, and sandwiches.  Before he knew it, he was on his feet and walking toward them, a thousand questions on the tip of his tongue.  Only when Olivia, looking puzzled and concerned, frowned at him and then turned to Bruce Delong, did he realize that, as a witness for the prosecution, he wasn't supposed to be talking to the defense.

He stopped in mid stride and put his hands in the air as an indication that none of them should approach him.  From where he stood, so that none of the court personnel could suspect he was discussing testimony in the case, he asked, "How's she holding up?"

Steven looked at Bruce, who nodded his consent for the young man to speak.

"She's hanging in there, Dad," he said.  "It's been a strain, but she insists she's ok to continue.  Alex is examining her now just to be sure she's all right.  We may ask for a continuance or a postponement if he says she shouldn't be allowed to carry on right now."

"Alex?  Why did you call him?  What's wrong with her?"  Hearing that Emily's personal physician had been called to the courthouse worried Steve.

Steven looked around and saw several reporters frantically scribbling notes.  Deciding that he wasn't going to help them write another scintillating story about his girlfriend, he repeated, "It's just been a strain is all, and we want to be sure she's ok.  We can talk more after the trial, ok?"

Steve could tell from his son's tone that there was more wrong with Emily than a little tension headache, but he also realized that his son was trying to protect her privacy, something she'd far had too little of since she had come out of hiding with Moretti.  So, despite the dozens of questions still burning in his brain, Steve just nodded and went back to his seat as Steven, Keith, Liv, and Bruce Delong paid for their lunch and left.

Emily took a small bite of the chicken salad sandwich her father had brought her and sipped on her lemonade.  It wasn't bad as far as cafeteria food went, but frankly, she preferred the meatloaf at Community General.  Bruce took a mouthful of his soup and bit into his sandwich before he said, "So, what do you think, Doc?  Is she fit to continue?"

Alex sighed.  "That depends," he said.  "Her blood pressure is higher than I would like to see it, and it hasn't come down much since Steven called me.  Can you convince her to take some medication?"

"Alex, I already said no.  This is just temporary.  I'll be just fine when the trial is over, and you can stop talking about me in the third person as if I wasn't even here."

"I know that, Em, but I'm concerned that your heart won't be able to take the strain until the trial is over.  If you don't let me give you something, I will declare you medically unfit to stand trial.  Now, what will it be?"

She stared at him mutinously for several moments, but, knowing he had the upper hand, Alex just stared back in patient expectation.  When she began rhythmically drumming her fingers on the table, he offered, "I'll give you a choice.  You can take a diuretic to combat the high blood pressure or an anti-anxiety drug to combat the nervoucness that is causing the high blood pressure."

"Hell of a choice," she muttered.  "Valium or something like it could just as easily make me act even stupider in court, but if you give me a diuretic, it will take a few weeks to pin down the appropriate dosage, and you'll probably make me wait until then to proceed."

Alex nodded.  "That's right.  But you cannot continue in your present condition, so you might as well do something.  A low dose of Valium or Xanax should take the edge off without making you act . . . "

When Alex paused to search for a word, Emily bluntly supplied, "Stupid."

"Ok, without making you act stupid," Alex agreed.

"All right," Emily finally gave in, "but make sure it's the lowest available dosage.  I seldom take anything, so I could be more sensitive than most people to whatever you give me."  She turned to Bruce and said, "Could we inform Judge Greer of the situation now and explain that if the medication doesn't have the desired effect we may still need to request a continuance.  If the meds don't work, he'll be less irritated if he's forewarned than if we suddenly have to stop proceedings again out of the blue."

Bruce nodded, "What exactly do you want me to tell him?"

Emily thought a minute and then said, "That I am suffering a serious stress response, but I want to continue with the trial.  My doctor has prescribed some medication that should control my anxiety, but if it doesn't, we will need to request continuance.  Also convey my apologies for disrupting his courtroom earlier, and emphasize that I am eager to complete this trial today, providing my medical condition allows it."

While Emily had been talking, Bruce looked at his watch.  It was eleven thirty.  He wolfed down his sandwich and half his soup and by eleven thirty-five, he was on his way to inform the judge of Emily's situation.

Emily sat looking at the remains of her lawyer's lunch for a moment after she swallowed small white tablet Alex offered her.  Then she smiled and asked him dryly, "You wouldn't happen to have any antacid tablets, would you?  I think he's going to need them."

"Six sevens," Steve said.

Steve, Cheryl, Ron, and Moretti had finished their lunches a while ago, and they were occupying themselves by playing Liar's Poker with dollar bills, bidding on the digits of the serial numbers of their bills as if they were hands of cards.  Steve was doing rather well, despite the fact that he was distracted with worrying about Emily, but then, he was just naturally lucky at games of chance.  Jesse had once attributed his gambling luck to karma.  Fate allowed him to win at low-stakes betting as compensation for all the times he had been shot up, beaten up, and blown up by the bad guys and for the times he had been dumped on by the women in his life before he met Maribeth.  

Steve could tell Cheryl was trying to figure out if he was bluffing.  The fact was, he didn't have any sevens, but if the other players had just two each, he'd win their dollars, again.  The outcome of the round was determined by combining the serial numbers of everybody's bills to determine if the 'hand' a player bid could be made of the digits on all four dollars.  Steve was willing to bet that there were six sevens among the three eight-digit serial numbers on his companions' bills.

"I . . . "

"Excuse me, folks," the bailiff interrupted before Cheryl could call his bluff, "but court is about to reconvene, and you need to return to the waiting room."

Steve grinned as Cheryl scowled, and he took out his wallet to put his money away.  "I guess we'll find out soon just what Emily was up to, huh?"

"I suppose," Cheryl said, "and we can continue this game while we wait."

"Oh, I don't think so," Steve disagreed.  "We'll have to start a new hand when someone is called in to testify.  You can't expect me to stick with a bid of six sevens when we're down one player."

"I suppose not," Cheryl agreed.  "Especially when you were bluffing to begin with."

"Bluffing?  Me?  What makes you think that?"

"Think, nothing!" Cheryl countered.  "I know you, Sloan, and I can tell when you're bluffing!"

"Oh, so you lost the last three hands on purpose just to, what, give me a false sense of security?"

"Now, children," Ron said to his friends as they continued their good-natured dispute.  "The law is a serious business, and you need to stop this foolishness before the trial resumes."

"He started it," Cheryl pretended to pout.

"She's just a sore loser," Steve replied.

Ron and Moretti just laughed at their mock argument, and the companionable banter continued all the way to the waiting room.__


	32. Trial, Part Two

(Chapter 32.  Judge Greer's courtroom, July 2, 2033.)

"The prosecution calls FBI Agent Ronald J. Wagner to the stand," U.S. Attorney Bressler stated, and he waited patiently as his next witness rolled through the courtroom in his motorized wheelchair and was helped to the witness stand by one of the bailiffs.  For a moment, Ron looked for his wife in the audience.  He quickly felt his anxiety level rise when she was not sitting beside Steven, Liv, and Keith where he expected her to be.  Finally, he found her, she gave him a smile and an encouraging wink, and he was able to take a deep breath and focus on the prosecutor.  

Amanda was the only person to whom Ron had ever confessed about the terrible stage fright that randomly assaulted him when he was called to testify in court.  Sometimes, he became very nervous and anxious, and other times, he was perfectly comfortable, and he never knew how he would feel until he got to the stand.  Knowing the anxiety would probably totally overwhelm him in his present medical condition if it attacked today, she had arranged to be in the courtroom throughout his testimony.  She would have sat with Liv, Keith, and Steven, but she had arrived a little later than expected, and there were no seats left near her friends.  She took a seat directly in front of the witness stand instead, and hoped Ron would find her quickly.  She felt a small pang of guilt and sympathy as she noticed his eyes widen when he realized she was not with their friends, but he eventually found her.  She gave him a wink and a smile, and was pleased to see him take a deep breath and settle in as if he was now ready for anything.

"Agent Wagner," Bressler began after Ron was sworn in, "could you please begin by describing when and how you first came to meet with the defendant and what information she disclosed to you in that meeting?"

"She approached me at the FBI's Los Angeles field office in late September," Ron wrinkled his forehead in though, and then shook his head.  "I don't recall the exact date, but it's in my notes from the meeting . . . "

"Excuse me just a moment, Agent Wagner," Bressler interrupted.  "I have copies of your notes here . . ."  He gave the bailiff two copies, which were then delivered to the defense table and the judge while Bressler handed another copy to his witness.  "Just to be sure we have all our details straight," the U.S. Attorney said condescendingly, "what is the exact date on your notes?"

Ron stared disdainfully at the young man for a moment and, in a tortured voice said, "According to my notes, on September 27, Lieutenant Stephens came to my office to inform me that she had overheard a plot to kidnap federal witness Giancarlo Moretti.  She had already managed to infiltrate the group of conspirators and was seeking federal assistance in apprehending them."

"She was not yet a police Lieutenant, was she?"

"No, Sir," Ron replied, his damaged voice grating as he spoke.  "She was taking courses in California law and procedure necessary to join the LAPD.  Officially, she was between jobs at the time, neither a member of the LAPD nor part of the Clearfield County Sheriff's Department, which she had left a few weeks earlier to move west."

"So, she was an out-of-work former cop when she came to you saying somehow, miraculously, she had ended up on the inside of a plot to abduct a protected federal witness," Bressler summarized.  "She must have been pretty convincing to get you to take her at her word."

Bruce Delong stood as if to object to the sarcastic tone Bressler was using with the witness, but to everyone's surprise, he rather reluctantly sat down again without a word when his client tugged at his sleeve and whispered some instructions to him.  Agent Wagner's testimony continued uninterrupted while the defense attorney sat quietly sulking beside his client.

"She was a concerned citizen with extensive police experience," Ron rephrased the statement coldly, his tone and choice of words belying the smoldering anger in his eyes, "and yes, she was very convincing.  I think I was right to trust her, given Mr. Moretti survived to . . ."

"I see," Bressler interrupted.  He paused for thought, then asked, "but at the time she came to you, was she working for any law enforcement agency?"

"On September 27, no, she was not employed as an officer of the law.  She was taking cour . . ."

"Thank you, Agent Wagner," Bressler cut him off as soon as Steve provided the information he had solicited.  "So, when this out-of-work former cop came to you with information about a plot to kidnap one of your witnesses, why did you so eagerly agree to jump on board and turn it into a sting operation?"

"I . . . I knew her . . .  by reputation, but . . . I checked her out, too . . . " Ron began.  The interruptions were beginning to unnerve him, but he was doggedly determined to finish his statement this time.

"Oh, so you knew about her criminal history?  Her conviction for espionage?"

"No, I didn't . . .I didn't go that far back, her record as a cop was exemplary, and . . . I didn't see the need to go further . . . I . . . "  Ron tried to faster this time, and managed to get more words in edgewise, but he was still cut off by the prosecutor.

"I see," Bressler interrupted stuffily.

Bruce started to get to his feet again, but Emily grabbed his arm.  They had a whispered, but obviously heated, discussion for several moments before Bruce finally held up his index finger and obviously mouthed the words, "Once more."

"Mr. Delong," Judge Greer asked, "Does the defense have something to say at this juncture?"

Bruce looked to Emily with pleading, insistent eyes, but she shook her head no.  Sighing, he said, "Not at this time, Your Honor.  Sorry for the interruption."

The judge frowned in a puzzled, thoughtful way, then relaxed his features, and said, "Very well.  Mr. Bressler, you may continue."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Bressler fawned.  Then he turned to his witness again.  "So, Agent Wagner, you and this 'exemplary' out-of-work cop with a history of federal convictions hatched a plan to kidnap Mr. Moretti.  To what end?"

"To take him into custody for safe keeping," Ron replied, now stiffly unwilling to say any more than was necessary to answer the question.  If Bressler wouldn't let him finish his answers and say anything to help Emily, then he would not give Bressler any additional information to twist around to suit his case.

"I thought he was already in federal custody," Bressler said, feigning confusion.

"Yes, well, he was, but . . . we weren't sure he was all that safe . . . "

"But you were sure that an out-of-work former cop with a criminal history and at least one federal conviction in her past could help you protect him," Bressler interrupted again.  "That's 

very interesting, Agent Wagner, very interesting."

This time, Bruce stood up and shook free of Emily's restraining hand on his arm.  "Objection, Your Honor!  The defense finds the witness' testimony very interesting, too, and would like to request that Mr. Bressler be compelled to stop his own testifying long enough to allow Agent Wagner to complete his answers before charging ahead to further questions.  This is the seventh time he has interrupted his own witness!"

"Your Honor," Bressler responded, "the witness has answered all of my questions adequately so far.  I am only summarizing and moving on when he has provided the information that I have requested.  I hadn't realized the defense was keeping score."

"Your Honor!" Bruce objected.

"Mr. Bressler," the judge warned.

"My apologies to the defense counsel," Bressler made a slight bow in Bruce's direction then responded to the judge.  "Your Honor, I am only trying to save this court's valuable time by continuing promptly after the witness answers my questions."

Emily huffed slightly and sat at the defense table biting her lower lip and wringing her hands while the judge looked very much like a man with a painful dilemma.  He knew Bressler was maneuvering Agent Wagner into incriminating Lieutenant Steven's against his will, but he also knew it was the prosecution's job to get the witnesses to state the facts in a case so that the guilty could be convicted.  He couldn't very well order Bressler to let the witness ramble at will, though he was sure if he did Agent Wagner would have a lot more to say that would benefit the defense.  Finally, he sighed and said, "Overruled, Mr. Delong.  You will have the opportunity to question him further under cross examination."

Bressler smiled brightly at the judge's ruling.  Bruce sat down with a sigh.  Emily continued to wring her hands and worry her bottom lip with her upper teeth.  

Ron's testimony continued for quite some time with Bressler treating him almost like a hostile witness, asking accusatory questions, and stopping him as soon as the incriminating testimony was given.  When something the FBI agent said was not damaging enough for Bressler's liking, it was either rephrased to be damning or dismissed completely as irrelevant and immaterial.

By the time Bressler thanked the FBI agent for his time, Ron was seething quietly, furious with the prosecutor's smug and condescending attitude as well as his own nervous stammering that had occasionally made him sound uncertain or untruthful.  Emily had restrained her lawyer from objecting several times, and Bruce was frantically exchanging notes with his client.  The scribbling went back and forth for several moments after Bressler had finished his questioning.  Finally, the judge spoke.

"Mr. Delong?"  
  


"Your Honor?"  Bruce stood as he spoke.

"Do you wish to cross examine the witness?"

Bruce looked at Emily and pointed to something on the tablet between them.  She shook her head and pointed to something else.  Bruce sighed impatiently, and said, "Not at this time, Your Honor, but we reserve the right to recall this witness when the defense presents its case."

"Is this another of your client's decisions?" Greer asked.  

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you deem her reasoning sound?"  Greer ordinarily didn't question such things, but he knew a little about the clever young woman who was before him, and he knew she was likely taking a larger role in her own defense than most accused individuals.  He didn't want there to be any question later of inadequate representation based on actions Bruce Delong took at her insistence.

Bruce sighed.  "I disagree with her premise, Sir, but I can't fault her logic, and I am aware of no precedents or case law that would require her to alter her strategy."

"Very well, then," the judge turned to Ron.  "Agent Wagner, you are dismissed.  As you may be recalled later, please refrain from discussing your testimony with anyone."

With a sigh that was equal parts relief and regret, Ron allowed himself to be helped back into his wheelchair.  As he whirred out of the courtroom, he was comforted to hear Amanda's familiar footsteps behind him.  The anxiety hadn't quite gotten the best of him this time, but he had a feeling he was going to be recalled.  Her calming presence would help him stay focused so that when he finally got a chance to say something helpful for Emily, he wouldn't freeze up.

Olivia and Keith sat in the audience along with Steven and Alex, who had signed himself out of the hospital for the rest of the day.  Upon hearing about the dramatic turn of events in the courtroom, Maribeth had readily agreed to cover the rest of his shift for him.  Olivia had a pile of shredded tissue in her lap.  It had once been a handkerchief, but now it was merely a sorry victim of an overwrought mother's anxiety.  Keith repeatedly shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  His prosthetic legs were giving him hell.  Steven sat between Liv and Alex, tense and worried and silent.  Alex kept a concerned eye on the three of them and his patient.

During the lull between Ron being dismissed and the next witness being called to the stand, Liv whispered to her husband, "What's she doing, Keith?"

Keith shook his head and said, "I don't know, O, but I have a bad feeling about this."

"The prosecution calls Deputy Chief of Police Steven M. Sloan to the stand, Your Honor!" 

"She saved my life, Mr. Bressler!" Steve nearly shouted.  About half way through Bressler's questioning, he had, for the first time in weeks, begun to feel that familiar burning sensation that signaled his emotions were getting out of control.  He was nearing the end of his testimony, now, and he was in a fair amount of pain.  He was thoroughly outraged at the way the prosecutor had been treating him.  Worse, he was worried because Emily was not allowing her lawyer to do anything to stop it.  Several times, Bruce Delong had looked as if he wanted to object, but when he looked to Emily, she shook her head.  None of Bressler's questions had asked for any information that would possibly help Emily, and when he tried to slip something in on his own, he was invariably cut off.  Steve was beginning to fear that Cheryl had been correct in thinking that Emily was trying to sabotage herself in court.

"Tell me, Deputy Chief Sloan, if she had given you the information you needed to take Mrs. Bergman into custody earlier, would your life have needed saving?"

"What?  I . . . I don't understand."  Steve was confused now.

"If Mrs. Bergman had been in jail, would your life have been in danger?"

Steve shook his head, puzzled.  "No, not from her at any rate.  But we couldn't put her in jail.  We had no proof that she was doing anything illegal.  You can't jail people because of what their relatives have done."

"But you can jail them for leaking information about an ongoing police investigation.  I believe it is called obstruction of justice."

"We had no proof," Steve said acidly.  "If we had, we would have arrested her on the spot."

Bressler smiled, and the expression on his face chilled Steve to the bone and made his guts burn at the same time.  "Lieutenant Stephens had the proof you needed, Chief Sloan.  She had it all along!"

"What?"  Bruce Delong blurted out.

"No!" Emily gasped.

Steve narrowed his eyes at the prosecutor and hissed, "I don't believe you."

"It's true, Chief," Bressler insisted.  "It's all laid out in these documents."  He produced copies of some of the ledgers Moretti had supplied for the Gaudino trial.  "If the lieutenant had turned Mr. Moretti over to you, as ordered back on March 5, you would have had all the evidence you needed to jail Ms. Bergman for conspiracy to kidnap a protected federal witness."

Reviewing the system of prefixes and the numeric transaction codes that Moretti had described in the Gaudino trial three months ago, Bressler showed how large amounts of money were regularly transferred to an account at a little offshore bank.  All of the transfers correlated with failed police actions against important members of the Gaudino crime family, and the last one, a huge payoff by any standards was made the day Moretti was kidnapped.

"All of that money was then transferred into the account of the late Roger, a.k.a. Rogelio, Gorini, who I am sure you know, is the nephew of one Vinnie Gaudino," Bressler continued.  "A percentage of _those _transfers was then deposited into a joint account that Mr. Gorini shared with his lover.  Do you know who his lover was, Chief Sloan?"

Steve swallowed down the taste of rising bile then almost whispered into the microphone, "Leigh Ann Bergman, my civilian assistant."

"That's right, Chief Sloan!  The woman who tried to kill you."  Bressler said triumphantly.  "Your Honor, the prosecution would now like to add the charge of obstruction of justice to those already pending against the defendant, Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stephens."

"Your Honor, I object!" Bruce shouted.

"I can't believe I missed it," Emily gasped.  She put her hand to her forehead, grasping her temples, and moaned, "Ohhhhhh, nooooo!"  She was visibly fighting tears.

Judge Greer banged his gavel and called for order.

"You had three months and a team of lawyers to work that out," Steve said.  "She had three weeks while she was on the run and on her own."

"Your Honor," Bruce continued to argue over the gasps and shouts in the courtroom, "there is no way my client could have know about those transactions!  She only had access to the ledger.  She didn't have the banking records of Mr. Gorini or Ms. Bergman.  There wasn't even an ongoing investigation into Ms. Bergman or Mr. Gorini's activities at the time, so there was nothing for my client to obstruct."

"Your client prevented the beginning of the investigation by withholding Mr. Moretti and the ledgers, Counselor!" Bressler countered.

"I will have order!" the judge commanded.

"She was protecting a witness!" Bruce shouted.

"She was concealing evidence vital to a police investigation!" Bressler shouted back.

The judge banged his gavel repeatedly until he had pummeled the courtroom into silence.  Looking at Bruce, he said, "Your objection is sustained, Mr. Delong."

"Your Hon . . . "

"Mr. Bressler!  If you choose to argue with me, you will be doing so from a jail cell.  I have made my ruling.  We will finish this trial first, and then I will consider the obstruction charges."

Bressler nodded.  "Yes, Sir."

"Very good.  Now, do you have any further questions for your witness?"

"Just one, Sir," Bressler said.  "This refers to the reckless endangerment charges which were leveled last week.  Chief Sloan, on March 28 of this year, if you'd had access to this information, would Leigh Ann Bergman have been in the courtroom on the day of the Gaudino trial?"

Steve glared at the prosecutor for several long moments until finally the judge said, "The witness will answer the question."

Steve leaned forward and said very tensely, "It is impossible to say what would have happened."

"All right, I will rephrase my question and break it into parts to make it easier for you to answer," Bressler said smugly.  "First, would you have charged Ms. Bergman with any crimes relating to the evidence I have just presented?"

To say no would have made him appear corrupt or a liar.  Saying yes would definitely be bad for Emily.  Steve leaned forward, ignoring the burning in his guts, and said, "Probably."

"Given the evidence I have just presented, do you, as an expert with all your years of experience in law enforcement, believe that after arraignment she would have been held to answer for those charges?"

"Probably."  Steve's response was terse and unwilling.

"And, if Ms. Bergman had been held to answer for those charges, would she have been present for the Gaudino trial on March 28?"

"Probably not."  Steve felt quite ill.

Bressler smiled pleasantly at his witness and said, "No further questions, Your Honor."

"Your witness, Mr. Delong."

Bruce and Emily were vigorously exchanging notes.  Steve watched as Delong pointed to something on a tablet, whispered something, and made a pleading gesture.  Emily tapped something on her tablet and shook her head.

"Mr. Delong?" the judge prompted.

Sighing dejectedly, Bruce said, "No questions at this time, Your Honor, but we reserve the right to recall this witness when the defense presents its case."

"Deputy Chief Sloan, you are dismissed for now," the judge said, "but, because you may be recalled, please do not discuss your testimony with anyone."

Steve stared hard at the defense table.  Against all common sense, he finally said, "Emily, I can help you."

"Chief Sloan!" Greer snapped, "Please, refrain from addressing the defendant!"

"Emily, let him question me.  I can help you!"

"Chief Sloan, you have been dismissed!"

"Emily, please!"

"Chief Sloan, one more word and I will hold you in contempt."

Steve opened his mouth as if to speak, but then he realized he would be of little use to anyone from a jail cell.  Moreover, Emily would probably hold herself responsible for his bad decisions made on her behalf.  Closing his mouth, he looked to the judge, nodded to acknowledge the warning, and left the stand.  As he stepped down, he caught Steven's eye, and with a flick of his gaze tried to indicate to his son that he needed to speak to him outside.  There was no way in hell he was going to let himself be hospitalized again, but he would let his son give him something for the indigestion that was plaguing him now.

Steve called Tanis from the courthouse at two in the afternoon.  

"Oh, hey, Steve, how's it going?"  Tanis heard the big sigh before he spoke and said, "Oh, that well, huh?"

"I think you should prepare that press release, Tanis," Steve said.  "Get ready to make as big a deal as you can out of it.  Draw as much attention as possible away from the trial."

"I'll do my best, Steve," she promised, "but the next press briefing isn't until eight tonight, so the reporters can have their stories for the eleven o'clock news hour.  It won't make it in time for the six o'clock news."

He sighed again.  "The way things are going, neither will the verdict.  Just do your best, ok?"

"I will, Steve, and I'm sorry.  I know you're very fond of her."

"Yeah.  Thanks, Tanis."

Steve had been careful not to discuss the specifics of Emily's case with Tanis over the phone.  Anything he had said, she could have gotten from asking any random spectator in the public gallery.  He had known from Cheryl and Moretti's expressions that they had received treatment similar to what he had experienced during their testimony, and had decided then that if Emily wouldn't let him help her in a court of law, he could at least help her in the court of public opinion.  If the press latched on to his resignation before the verdict was handed down, at least she might have a brief few hours of peace before they started broadcasting her life's story and clamoring for a statement from her again.

After Moretti's testimony, there had been a short recess 'so the defendant's physician could examine her', the bailiff had said.  Emily had been determined fit to continue, though, and fifteen minutes later, Ron had been recalled to testify for the defense.  Moretti had gone off for a walk, his protection in tow, and as Steve hung up the phone and turned to Cheryl, he realized with a burning feeling in his stomach that he was in for another round of questioning he didn't especially want to face.

"Why didn't you tell me you were turning in your resignation before you went to Tanis?"

As he took a seat, Steve didn't even consider lying to her or telling her to back off.  She'd known him too long, and she knew him too well for that.  He was feeling tired and dejected, and his stomach was still upset.  He just didn't have the energy to fend off her questions with clever or ambiguous answers, so he put it to her straight.  "I don't think I can do the job any more."

"Why?"  The only indication of Cheryl's surprise was a slight widening of her eyes, something most people would never notice, but Steve had known to look for it because he was so familiar with her expressions.  He smiled slightly.  _She's still got it._

"Because of Leigh Ann," he said.  He rested his elbows on his knees with his hands clasped and hung his head.

"Steve, she's sick," Cheryl told him, placing a hand on his back.  "You're the best cop I have ever known.  How can you let her drive you out of the force?"

"She worked for me for years, and she hated me, Cheryl.  She hated me enough to want to kill me; and not only that, she wanted to destroy me," Steve spoke slowly, and Cheryl could tell it was the first time he had ever voiced any of these thoughts.  She waited patiently for him to think things through as he spoke, and was surprised by how deeply Leigh Ann's treachery had affected him.  

"She wanted to alienate me from my friends and family and to take everything I ever was and everything I've ever done twist it and make it dirty.  She wanted to shame me.  She wanted to completely disassemble me in front of the world, and I never noticed."  Cheryl realized that while on a personal level Steve felt hurt and betrayed by his civilian assistant, on another, deeper level he was astounded that anyone could be so devious and appalled that it had gotten by him.

"Steve," Cheryl said sympathetically, "Leigh Ann is crazy, not stupid.  She hid it very well.  Nobody was suspicious."

He turned in his seat to face her.  "But Cheryl, I saw her _every day_, several times a day.  She brought me my coffee in the mornings, handled my correspondence for me, and planned my appointments.  She even reminded me to send my wife flowers for birthdays and anniversaries."

A horrified look crossed his face, followed by a pained expression as his sensitive stomach protested yet another surge of unpleasant emotion.  "She could have taken me out any day.  She could have hurt Maribeth or Steven or . . . or my dad.  Jesse has been in my office so many times, with his wife and daughter.  Amanda and Ron and their kids have been by.  She's met Dion's kids.  But she waited.  She waited until she could hurt us all.  How can I be a cop and work _that_ closely with someone for _that_ long and _never notice_ that kind of hatred?"

"Steve, you had no reason to suspect her," she tried to convince him.  "You didn't know who she really was.  She hid her background well, and she did her job perfectly.  She was an excellent assistant."

Steve leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes as he spoke.  "If I'm home when Maribeth gets back from work, I can tell by the time she opens the front door what kind of day she's had.  I can tell when my dad has an idea by the light in his eyes.  I know by Amanda's posture what her mood is."

He leaned forward and looked at Cheryl again.  "A minute ago, I could tell I surprised you because your eyes opened wider, and now you doubt me, and I know it, because you're raising one eyebrow," Cheryl frowned, "and now you can't believe I'd notice something like that in you.  Hell, I've even learned to read Ron Wagner!  My job requires me to be able to notice things about people.  It was right in front of me for years, and I never saw it.  I can't do my job if I can't see signs like that."

"Steve, there have been other suspects who have managed to trick you in the past, why are you letting her get under your skin so bad?"

"She didn't just trick me, Cheryl, she made a fool of me."  Suddenly, Steve was on his feet and pacing.  "She smiled to my face and did small favors like picking up my dry cleaning and wrapping Christmas presents for me when things got real busy, and all the while, she was looking for a way to ruin me."

Cheryl watched Steve walking back and forth in front of her.  She could read him every bit as well as he could her, and she knew there was something more coming.  He only paced when he was coming up to something he didn't think he could deal with.  It was as if he thought he could walk away from it if he just kept moving.  

Eventually, he spoke again.  "I questioned Leigh Ann the night she shot Emily.  Do you know what she said?  She told me I could salvage some dignity by claiming old age clouded my judgment.  She was right.  She also said, that would just prove I'm too vain and proud to admit I'm past my prime.  Cheryl, I'm over seventy years old.  Why the hell am I still a cop?"

He threw himself back down in his chair and waited for an answer.


	33. The Defense Presents Its Case

(Chapter 33.  Judge Greer's courtroom and the witnesses' waiting room, July 2, 2033.)

After the judge reminded him that he was still under oath, Ron waited patiently on the witness stand while Bruce Delong consulted a sheet of paper Emily had handed him.  He couldn't tell for sure, but something about the way Delong studied the paper indicated that it was a list of questions she had told him to ask.  Despite the long list and the slight delay, Ron wasn't nearly as nervous as he had been before, mostly because Amanda had reminded him that Delong knew he was sympathetic to Emily's cause and would give him time to complete his responses.  

"Agent Wagner," Delong began, "when did you last meet with the defendant before the Gaudino trial?"

"Early February, before she was hired by the LAPD.  The exact date is in my notes if you would like to check."

Delong smiled.  "We'll take your word for that.  Judge Greer can check it during his deliberations, if he's so inclined . . . unless Mr. Bressler has any objections . . . ?"

Ron joined in the soft ripple of laughter that flowed across the courtroom until the judge silenced it with a couple of taps of his gavel.  "We know you are very clever, Mr. Delong, but one more smart comment and you will be in jail, understood?"

Bruce became very serious and said, "Yes, Your Honor.  I'm sorry, Sir."  He studied the paper Emily had given him for a moment, then almost as if reciting what he had read he said, "Think very carefully, Agent Wagner.  I want you to remember your _exact words_ if you can."

Ron nodded, frowned for a moment, and then slowly smiled as if he knew what was coming.  Those people in the audience who could see Emily saw that she was smiling, too.

"What was the last order you gave Lieutenant Stephens before your meeting ended?"

Ron leaned forward and spoke carefully and clearly into the microphone.  "I told her, 'Get Moretti to the trial, no matter what.'"

"'Get Moretti to the trial, no matter what.'  Those were your exact words?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You're positive?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How can you be sure?"

"Because Lieutenant Stephens told me to remember.  She said, 'Remember you said that.  When I'm on trial for kidnapping him, remember you said, 'no matter what'.'  It's in my notes.  It was such a strange request I thought I should write it down.  I don't know how she knew this would happen, but apparently she had her suspicions."

Bruce smiled.  "Thank you, Agent Wagner."  Turning to the prosecution, he said, "Your witness, Mr. Bressler."

"You're still a good cop, Steve," Cheryl said.  "I don't know why you didn't see it in her, but nobody else did either, not even her husband."

"But Cheryl, I trusted her with so much . . . "

"Remember, oh, about a lifetime ago, when I got my divorce?" she interrupted.

Steve nodded, "Yeah."

"I never told you about this because I was ashamed, but he was cheating on me.  We slept in same bed every night.  He made me breakfast in the mornings.  We made love and went walking in the rain.  He . . . left me for a twenty-three-year-old UCLA co-ed who was having his baby.  He'd always told me he didn't want kids, but he just didn't want kids with me."

"Cheryl, I'm sorry.  I never knew that," Steve had gotten better at masking certain emotions over the years, so while his guts burned with a raging desire to beat his good friend's two-faced ex to a pulp, he was still able to offer her nothing but compassion and sympathy.

"Yeah, well, now you do.  My point is, sometimes we trust people.  We don't even question them, and they let us down.  It took me a long time to trust anyone again."

"Cheryl, you never remarried."

To Steve's great surprise, she laughed at him.  "I haven't been single and celibate for the past fifty years either!  I didn't marry him because I trusted him, Steve.  I married him because I loved him enough to want to spend the rest of my life with him.  I'd have stayed with him even after the affair, if he had wanted me."

Steve looked at Cheryl, and his expression clearly showed that he didn't have any idea what to say.  Then he drew his brows together, looked at the floor, and nodded slightly as if he knew exactly how she felt.

"Steve," she put a hand on his arm and he looked back at her, "you're a hell of a good cop.  If you're really ready to retire, do it, but don't let one person's betrayal drive you off the job just because it's scared you into thinking you haven't got what it takes anymore."

Steve looked back at the floor and nodded again, but this time Cheryl could tell it only meant he had heard what she was saying, not that he really believed it.

"Agent Wagner," the prosecutor asked, "after your February meeting with the defendant, did she at any time receive orders to turn custody of Mr. Moretti over to you or to the LAPD?"

Ron sighed.  He had thought he would finally be able to help Emily's case, but he was wrong.  "Yes, she did."

"Did she obey those orders?"

"No."

"Was she then considered a fugitive?"  Bressler was building a rhythm.

"Yes."  Ron knew better than to try to say more.  He could only hope to get through  this quickly.

"Was a task force assembled to find and capture her and take Mr. Moretti into custody?"

"Yes."

"Did she make repeated efforts to avoid being caught by the task force?"

"Yes."

"Did those efforts include disguises, aliases, and frequent changes of location?"

"Yes."  To Ron, his answers sounded like nails in a coffin.

"So, she hid from the task force?"

"Yes."

"She ran from you?"

"Yes."

"And she was blatantly disobeying orders?"

"Yes."  Ron's voice had gotten softer and softer as his testimony became more damning.

"Once more, just to be absolutely clear on this point, after she disregarded orders to bring Mr. Moretti in and decided instead to go on the run with him, was the defendant, Lieutenant Emily Stephens, considered a fugitive from justice, and did she, even then, continue to take special measures to avoid apprehension?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"No further questions, Your Honor."  Bressler proudly took a seat and waited to see what would happen next.

Emily scribbled a note, and as she was still writing, Bruce Delong requested, "Redirect, Your Honor?"

"Go ahead, Counselor."

Bruce frowned, nodded once, and said, "Agent Wagner, was Lieutenant Stephens ever on the payroll of the FBI?"

Ron smiled.  Suddenly he saw the reasoning behind Emily's strategy of refusing to cross examine him when he testified for the prosecution.  Now that they were recalling him, they could treat him as a defense witness, which would allow them the right to redirect his testimony, and would give them the last word on everything.  Twenty years ago, things might not have worked out this way, but Emily was a smart girl, and she was using the letter of the law to her full advantage.

"No, she was never employed by the FBI."

"So, she was never under any obligation to actually follow your orders, was she?"

"No."  Ron answered loud and clear.

"So, as far as you were concerned, she was just another citizen, and you could only hope she was trying her best to do what was right, is that a fair summary of the situation?"

"Yes."

As Ron and Bruce had been talking, Emily had been scribbling further notes.  Bruce wandered toward the table during questioning, glanced at her pad, and nodded again.  "All right, for a moment, let's just assume she was on the FBI payroll, with all the responsibilities, protection, and benefits that entails.  Is there ever a time when it is considered appropriate for an agent of the FBI to disobey orders from a superior?"

Ron couldn't hide his grin.  "Yes.  I can give you two examples that are relevant to this case."

"Please do," Bruce encouraged him, "and tell us what would happen to the agent in question after the assignment was over."

"Well, if an order comes into direct conflict with the primary objective of an agent's assignment, it is considered appropriate to disobey orders.  For example, if following those orders would endanger a witness the agent was assigned to protect, the agent could probably disobey orders, and the behavior would be excused.  Also, if obeying orders would compromise an ongoing investigation, the agent could quite likely disregard them without being punished.  For example, if an operation were underway to flush out a suspect or a corrupt element within the command structure, and following orders would allow the individual or individuals to remain hidden, an agent would not only be allowed, but expected to disobey, or at least delay compliance with those orders."

As he talked, Ron relaxed, but his voice began to wear out.  Ever considerate, Bruce poured him a glass of water from the pitcher on the defense table and waited patiently while he drank it.  Ron handed the glass back and nodded his gratitude when Bruce refilled it and sat it on the coaster that was placed on the small shelf by the witness stand.

When he spoke again, the defense attorney's tone was thoughtful.  "Surely there must be some sort of procedure for determining whether or not the agent in question was actually acting in the spirit of his or her assignment.  Otherwise, there would be no deterrent to keep people from ignoring any order they just didn't like."

"Yes, there is a procedure," Ron confirmed.  "For minor disobedience, the agent's superior may deal with the situation.  When a severe breach of conduct occurs, we have an internal hearing to determine whether the agent's actions constitute disobedience or criminal behavior.  If the behavior is ruled criminal, the case is referred to the United States Attorney."

"You mean Mr. Bressler?"

"Or his colleagues, yes."

"Who decides whether a breach of conduct is minor or severe enough to warrant an internal hearing?"

"The agent's superior."

"So, if Lieutenant Stephens were working for the FBI, these proceedings would have compromised her right to due process, is that correct?"

Ron was thoughtful for a moment and then said, "Yes, Sir."

"And if she were working for the FBI, would you have been her supervisor?"

"Yes."

"Would you have referred her behavior to an internal hearing?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because she accomplished her objective without harming any civilians."

"So, if she had been on the FBI's payroll, do you think we would be here in court today?"

"Probably not."

A few minutes later, Agent Ron Wagner came rolling out of the courtroom looking like the cat that got the cream.  Not long after that, a very confused Deputy Chief of Police Steve Sloan walked in and took his seat on the witness stand.

"Chief Sloan," Bruce Delong began once Steve had settled himself, "in earlier testimony, it was established that Lieutenant Stephens was repeatedly ordered to turn Mr. Moretti over to police custody.  Do you recall that?"

"Yes," Steve replied disgustedly.

"And you also recall that a task force was put in place to find her and Mr. Moretti, correct?"

"Yes."  Steve was already becoming frustrated.  He didn't understand why Delong was reprising testimony that the prosecution had already pried from him.

"And the Lieutenant continued to take very active steps to elude the task force, did she not?"

"Yes."  The burning in Steve's stomach surged and abated with every incriminating reply.

"Did you think Mr. Moretti was in danger of being harmed by her?"

Steve hesitated in his answer this time.  He wasn't sure what to say.  Finally, he said, "I didn't know what to think.  I . . . I have a history with her parents, and I know what kind of people they are, so I believed she was raised with a strong moral background and a sense of personal responsibility.  Also, when I hired her for the LAPD, I had a very good feeling about her.  Her employment history and police training were extremely impressive, and when I interviewed her, she handled herself very well.  I didn't think she would harm Mr. Moretti, but I wasn't one hundred percent sure."

"You hired her on February 14, is that correct?"

"Yes."

"And Mr. Moretti was taken on March 3, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you organized the task force to locate the defendant and Mr. Moretti on March 6, correct?"

"Yes.  It's standard procedure."

"In an apparent kidnapping, you mean?"

More confused than ever because the defense seemed to be fishing for damning evidence, Steve said, "Yes, it's standard procedure in an apparent kidnapping."

Emily sat at the defense table smiling, and when Delong turned to her, she nodded.

"Why, then, did you change procedure when you met with the defendant in front of Mann's Chinese Theatre on March 17?"

"Because she had approached me on the beach the previous day with information that my personal assistant was actually a Mafia informant who was spying on me and the police department.  That day, I developed a plan to flush out the corrupt individuals in the LAPD, including my assistant, and I needed the Lieutenant's help."  Steve really had no idea where the questioning was going, but it seemed to be headed in a better direction now, if only because it allowed him to talk about the good things Emily had done.

"And you trusted her, even though she was technically a fugitive?"

"Yes, I suppose I did."

"You trusted her, an apparently corrupt cop whom you'd met barely a month before, over a woman with whom you had worked closely on a daily basis for years."

Delong was confusing him again, but Steve answered honestly, "Yes."

"Why?"

"Why?"  Steve frowned, at a loss.  "I . . . I really don't know.  Like I said, I knew her background, her parents, and I had a feeling about her."

"Why did you have this feeling?  What did she do that made her seem trustworthy?"

"It's hard to pin down exactly.  It has more to do with how she acted than with what she did," Steve tried to explain.  "It was the way she carried herself, the way she talked.  It was clear to me that she knew she was on the right side, so she wasn't worried about what people would think.  The fact that she chose to be a cop, despite being a multimillionaire in her own right and standing to inherit a sizeable fortune from her parents as well, said a lot about her character.  In her interview, she was very direct and forthright, and seemed to place a high value on honesty.  She was relaxed and calm and maintained eye contact.  She seemed to have nothing to hide."

"She must have made quite an impression on you, because you even trusted her after she kidnapped Mr. Moretti.  Why?"

Steve sighed deeply, and thought hard.  Clearly, Delong was looking for something specific, and he hadn't said it yet.  Whatever it was, he dearly wanted to say it, if it could help Em.  Finally, he answered, "If Lieutenant Stephens had intended to kill Mr. Moretti for payment, he never would have left the federal safe-house alive.  She'd have skipped town, with the money, by sundown, and we never would have heard from her again.  If she had kidnapped him to sell to the highest bidder, someone he could incriminate, again, she would have left LA with her money, and that would have been the last we ever saw of her.  Within the week, we would have found Moretti's body, killed in some dramatic fashion and dumped in some very public place as a warning to others who might think to testify against the Mob."

"But none of that ever happened, did it?"

"No, Sir," Steve replied, "as far as we could tell, she was still keeping Mr. Moretti safe.  She had promised to keep checking in, and she kept her word about that.  She was very reliable about the things she had told us she would do.  The few times we got close to catching her, she found a clever way, not a violent way, to escape.  Her actions were consistent with her wanting to do the right thing, even when she wasn't sure what that was."

"And so, you trusted her."

"Yes, I trusted her, because I believed she had Mr. Moretti's best interests at heart."

"And on March 17, you met her outside of Mann's Chinese Theatre.  Would you tell us why and what happened then?"

Steve again explained his plan to flush out the corrupt cops on the force using Emily and Moretti as bait.  He talked about Emily's instructions for how he was to get the plan to her, and how she, disguised as a tourist dressed as See-Threepio, the golden robot from Star Wars, had managed to get the envelope containing the explanation of his plan out of his pocket without him knowing.

"Then what happened?" Delong asked.

Steve told how he had lingered around to try to find and talk to Emily.  He described how he knew she was the one dressed in western gear when he realized she had skipped Tom Mix's place on the sidewalk.  Then he reluctantly told about how ill he had suddenly become once he spoke to her and how he had collapsed on the sidewalk vomiting blood.

"And when you collapsed, Chief Sloan, what did the Lieutenant do?"

"My memory's a little hazy on some of this," he said, "I don't really remember everything that happened."

"That's ok.  Do your best."

"She called an ambulance," Steve said slowly as he closed his eyes and tried to reassemble events in his mind.  "I remember her searching me and taking my phone out of my pocket.  She tried to make me comfortable and keep me calm.  I remember hearing sirens, and I told her to go, but she stayed a little longer, to make sure I wouldn't be left alone until the ambulance came."  

Suddenly the memories came flowing back, and he could see it all again.  Unfortunately, he could feel it again, too, though not so intensely as the first time around.  "She enlisted some bystanders and instructed them on how to take care of me," he gasped.  Still with his eyes closed, he took several deep breaths and willed himself to relax.  Then he opened his eyes so the images in his mind would not be so vivid.  

"A man was there with his wife and kids.  He was from Minnesota.  Lieutenant Stephens had him send his family away, so it wouldn't upset the children, and then when he came back to help, she gave him a handkerchief to wipe my mouth and told him to keep me talking.  She got a woman who was dressed as Marilyn Monroe to kneel behind me and rub my back and make sure I stayed on my side so I didn't choke if I passed out.  She made sure I'd be ok before she went anywhere."

"That's quite a lot of detail," Delong said.  "I thought you said your memory was hazy."

Steve frowned, wondering why Delong was questioning his statement.  "I thought it was.  I didn't realize how much I recalled of it until I started thinking back, but it's all there.  The guy from Minnesota asked me if the Lieutenant was my daughter.  I saw the wheels of the gurney, and then I passed out."

"But you are sure you remember the events of that day as they happened, is that correct?"

"Yes, that is correct.  I remember just what happened that day."

"Good.  I need to be very sure you remember that, so I will ask you once more.  Are you certain your memories of those events are accurate?"

Steve blew out a puff of air and looked exasperated.  "Yes, Counselor, I am certain, sure, and positive that my memories of those events are quite accurate."

"Thank you, Chief.  I just needed to confirm that.  Now, in her deposition, the Lieutenant testified that she asked you a question after she told you the ambulance was on the way.  Do you remember what she asked?"

A slow smile spread across Steve's face.  Finally, he saw where Delong had been going with his questions.  "Yes, I remember."

"What was it?"

"She asked me what orders I had for her."

"And what did you tell her?"

"I told her to look after her witness.  He was too important to put at risk."

"Did you tell her to turn herself in to the task force?"

"No."

"Did you tell her to turn Mr. Moretti over to the FBI?"

"No."

"Did you tell her to come out of hiding and to quit trying to elude the police and the FBI?"

"No."

"So what did you intend for her to do when you told her to . . . did you say 'look after' the witness?"

"I did say 'look after', and I meant for her to stay in hiding and to protect Mr. Moretti from any threat to his safety until she brought him in to testify in the Gaudino trial."

"And did she do so?"

"Yes."

"So, despite what had happened before, on March 17 when you spoke with her at Mann's Chinese Theatre and told her to look after her witness, would you say that Lieutenant Stevens was still under your command and following your orders?"

"Yes," Steve confirmed, "I most definitely would." 

Bruce Delong inclined his head and said, "Thank you, Chief Sloan.  I have no further questions at this time, Your Honor."

The Judge looked at the prosecutor and said, "Your witness, Mr. Bressler."

Bressler took a few moments to compose his thoughts before he started questioning Steve.  He had made a few notes on a sheet of paper during Steve's testimony, and he was clearly trying to use them to organize his questions so that he made the most effective presentation possible.  Finally, the prosecutor looked at Steve and asked, "Chief Sloan, is it true that you ordered Lieutenant Stephens to turn Mr. Moretti over to police custody when you met with her in Peck Park on March 5?"

"Yes."

"And she refused?"

"Yes."

"And was she wearing a disguise when she encountered one of your officers, Charles Donovan, who was looking for her on March 6?"

"From what I understand, yes."

"And Officer Donovan reported to you that he showed her a picture of herself and asked if she had seen the woman in question?"

"Yes."

"Did she reveal herself to be the woman in the photograph?"

"No."

"Did you contact her answering service as she requested and tell her to bring Mr. Moretti to this very courtroom by nine o'clock in the morning on March 15?"

"Yes."

"Did she do so?"

"No, but she did appear, in disguise, and then sent me a message by the janitor.  She knew the phony trial we had arranged was a trap to get her and Mr. Moretti."

"Yes, well, that's neither here nor there.  Did she bring Mr. Moretti into the courtroom as ordered on march 15?"

Steve's stomach burned at being forced again to incriminate Emily.  "No, she did not."

"When she approached you on the beach on March 16, didn't she run from you yet again?"

"Yes, after informing me that my civilian assistant, Leigh Ann Bergman, was probably a danger to Mr. Moretti."

"And you took her word for this?"

"Yes."

"I see."  Bressler grew thoughtful again.  After a few silent moments during which he walked back to the prosecution's table, checked his notes, and ticked something off, he came back to stand before Steve and asked, "I understand that when you met with Lieutenant Stephens in Peck Park she threatened you with annihilation ammunition and laser sights, is that true?"

"There was only one round of annihilation ammunition in the coin return of the phone booth."

"From what I understand, one round is all it takes."

"Yes, that's true," Steve agreed, "but it needs to be shot out of a gun.  And the 'laser sights' were really just laser pointers you can buy in any office supply store, mounted on tripods and controlled by infrared remotes."

"But you sincerely believed there were gunmen with annihilation ammunition who had their weapons trained on you at the time, is that correct?"

"Yes, I did.  It was only when we found the tripods that we realized she had gone out of her way to avoid placing me in any real danger."

"But while you were talking to her, you believed you were under a very real threat of death, is that correct?"

Reluctantly, Steve admitted, "Yes."

Bressler frowned and nodded, and he walked back to his table and ticked something off on his notes.  He took a moment and read what remained on his pad, then turned, and walked back to Steve once again.

"I'm sure you realize, Chief Sloan, that I was listening very carefully to your testimony while Mr. Delong questioned you.  You spoke very highly of Lieutenant Stephens, extolling her virtues, her integrity, her reliability, and above all, her honesty.  You were very sincere in your testimony, Chief, but I have to be honest and tell you, something about it didn't ring true."

"Your Honor," Bruce Delong began to object, but this time, Bressler kept talking.

"I am not accusing him of perjury yet, Mr. Delong," Bressler said, "I just think there was something missing in his testimony, and I am trying to nail down what exactly it was."

"Then nail it down quickly, Mr. Bressler," Judge Greer said, "or pursue another line of inquiry."

"Yes, Sir," Bressler said.  He turned back to Steve.  "The whole time you were speaking, Chief, there was something on the edge of my consciousness that kept telling me what you were saying was wrong.  I couldn't pin down how or why it was wrong, and I don't believe you were lying, but I knew something was off."  Bressler looked at Steve and asked innocently, "Is that what the police call a hunch?"

Steve eyed the man testily and said, "Yes, something like that."

"I suppose in your long career you've had a lot of hunches, haven't you?"

Steve nodded, "Yes, I have."

"And most of them have paid off?"

"Yes."

"And you had a hunch about the Lieutenant?"

"Yes."

"That's what struck me as odd, a man of your experience having a 'hunch' that the defendant was trustworthy, and being so far wrong.  I couldn't figure out how that could happen, but then you said it yourself.  When talking about her interview, you said, 'She seemed to have nothing to hide.'  Do you recall saying that?"

"Y-yes," Steve said a bit reluctantly and breathed deeply, trying to calm his nervous stomach.

"The fact is, even at the interview, she was hiding quite a lot from you, wasn't she?"

Steve frowned.  "I'm not sure I know what you mean."

Bressler smiled indulgently.  "See, there you go, I knew you wouldn't sit here in court and lie to us, you've just forgotten, maybe because your personal relationship to the defendant's parents has biased you in her favor, maybe because your son's relationship to her has done so.  But I really do believe you have no idea what I'm talking about.  Would that be a hunch as well?"

"Your Honor," Bruce Delong objected, "The fact is, at the moment, none of us have any idea what Mr. Bressler is talking about, and I happen to have a hunch that I will be objecting again if he doesn't get to the point quickly."

"I have to say I agree, Mr. Bressler, and if you fail to do so, I will have this entire line of questioning stricken from the record."

"Yes, Your Honor, I'm sorry for the delay, but I needed to be sure the Chief was actually ignorant of what is to come before I questioned him on it.  Otherwise, he may well have unwittingly perjured himself."

A ripple of surprise moved through the courtroom at Bressler's remark.  Steve's eyes opened wide in shock, and he flinched in pain as his stomach, which had not been particularly calm through the meandering and seemingly pointless questioning now, yelped at the unwelcome surprise.  He couldn't believe Emily had any secrets left, but that appeared to be what Bressler was leading up to.

"You said the Lieutenant 'appeared to have nothing to hide' at her interview, but isn't it a fact that, even then, she was concealing important facts from you.  At that time she never mentioned that she was already cooperating with Agent Wagner on an FBI operation, did she?"

"No," Steve said.

"And she never told you she was dating your son, either, did she?"

"No, but I don't see how that was relevant to her being hired."

"Nor do I, but she'd been dating him for five months, and living with him for over a month, according to his deposition, and you'd never met her.  That's quite a secret to be keeping, and she even enlisted your own son to help her."

"It was actually my son's idea," Steve said.  "He was worried that if she knew who I was she'd be nervous about applying, or, if she got hired, think that he had swayed me to hire her."

"I suppose that could have been the case, though I doubt there's much that can make the defendant nervous, and she seems to have enough confidence in her abilities that she would never consider that she might have needed . . . the recommendation of a friend to get the job."

"Your Honor!" Bruce objected again.

Before the judge could rule, Bressler said lightly, "Withdrawn," and he continued with his questioning.  "Chief, the Lieutenant was also hiding from you a number of prior arrests and seven federal convictions, wasn't she?"

"Juvenile records are sealed, and she was under no obligation to disclose those convictions to me."

"But she was tried and convicted as an adult, Chief."

"She was still a juvenile at the time, Mr. Bressler, so her records were sealed."

"And she elected not to disclose those convictions to you, correct?"

"Correct."

"So, she was keeping three rather important secrets from you, and yet she 'seemed to have nothing to hide' as far as you were concerned."

"That is correct, but the things you have mentioned had no bearing on her ability to do her job."

"Oh, I'm not worried about the defendant's ability to do her job, Chief, I'm worried about your ability to do yours.  You seem willing to give Lieutenant Stephens the benefit of far too many doubts.  You sit here telling us you trusted her; you had a feeling about her.  Yet, from the moment you met her, she was deceiving you, and you still sit before us, telling us, under oath, that you believe she had no intention of harming Mr. Moretti.  Isn't it possible, Chief Sloan, just possible, that she has been using you all along?  Isn't it possible that only when she realized there was no way she could get away with eliminating Mr. Moretti did she decide to turn herself in and to remand him to the police for protection?"

Murmurs of surprise and curiosity filled the air.  The judge banged his gavel twice, and Steve leaned toward the microphone and said, "No, I don't believe it's possible.  Emily wouldn't do that."

"You say that because you trust her."

"Yes, and I trust her even more now than I did before because I know her."

"There's another woman you thought you knew and trusted who betrayed you recently, isn't there, Chief?"

Again, whispers broke the silence.  Steve closed his eyes for a moment, composing himself before he replied.  Finally, he spoke into the microphone, "Leigh Ann Bergman, yes."

"She hated you, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Did you know it?"

"No."

"Not until she tried to kill you, eh?  Did you know she was a Mafia informant?"

"No, not until Lieutenant Stephens told me."

"Ms. Bergman wanted to destroy your career, didn't she?"

"Yes."

"Yet, you worked with her for years, and you trusted her, didn't you?"

"Yes."  Again, Steve felt a tiny surge in the burning sensation in his guts with every answer.

"You never saw any indication that she wanted to ruin you or that she was a traitor to your cause, did you?"

"No."

"So, you were wrong about her and about her intentions, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Could you be wrong about the defendant, too?"

The whole room waited anxiously while Steve closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, and composed himself.  He took so long, the judge inquired, "Chief Sloan, does Mr. Bressler need to repeat the question?"

Steve shook his head and continued to sit there, eyes closed, thinking, or meditating, or perhaps praying, no one could really tell.  Then he squared his shoulders, opened his eyes, and leaned forward to speak clearly into the microphone.

"Earlier today, I might have agreed with you, Mr. Bressler, that my instincts were somehow lacking," he confessed.  "Then a friend pointed out to me that, quite often, the people who are closest to us are the ones who can most easily betray us because we have already given them our trust.  I have been a cop for over half a century now, and I have trusted a few people I shouldn't have, but by and large, my instincts are good.  When I make a decision about a person based on a gut feeling, I am usually right.  The fact that Mr. Moretti was there to testify at the Gaudino trial and the simple fact that I walked out of this very courtroom on that day prove that I was right about Lieutenant Stephens."

"But isn't it . . . "

Steve continued talking, not permitting Bressler to interrupt this time.  "She never, ever intended to harm Mr. Moretti.  She was just determined to do what she set out to accomplish, which was bring him safely to testify in the trial of Vinnie Gaudino.  When my orders conflicted with her objective, she was forced to make a decision: obey me, or protect her witness.  In my opinion, she made the right choice, and if this matter had been left to the LAPD to resolve, no charges would have been filed."

When Steve quit talking, he looked to Emily, and saw admiration and silent gratitude shining in her eyes.  The room remained silent for several long moments, and then the Judge asked, "Do you have any further questions, Mr. Bressler?"

Bressler's shoulders slumped.  He knew he'd just lost the case.  "No further questions, your honor."

"Redirect, Mr. Delong?"

"No, thank you, Your Honor, I think Chief Sloan has already said everything that needed saying."

Cheryl's testimony was very straightforward and went quickly with neither the prosecution nor the defense bogging down in fine and delicate details to help make a dramatic point.  The audience was amused by what she described as 'Lieutenant Stephens' Spiderman tactics' of leaving the bad guys behind, tied up and with a note attached.  When Bruce asked if she minded Emily's apprehending half a dozen suspects for them and then disappearing into the night, she had to say that, on the contrary, she would be ashamed not to be grateful for anything that reduced the risks to her and the men under her command.

When Bressler cross-examined her, he asked only a few cursory questions to reestablish the fact that Emily had not turned Moretti over when ordered to do so.  He also verified that she had not actually followed her own plan as she had described it to her superiors via the computer program she had pressed into Cheryl's hand in the first sting operation when Emily and Moretti had helped flush out five corrupt cops by pretending she was sick and he was bringing her in for medical attention.

Moretti's testimony was very cut and dried, which surprised even him, considering how he felt about Emily and how much she had done for him while he was in her custody.  Once Bruce Delong established that Moretti would have gone with Emily willingly had he not been drugged before he had the opportunity to decide, he ended his questioning and let Bressler have his turn.  When Bressler tried to get Moretti to agree that since he had been drugged before he was taken from the safe house, he must have been kidnapped, Moretti gave the matter some thought and said, "Well, I asked Wagner to get me out of the safe house alive.  I didn't tell him how to do it.  I guess, since she was workin' under his instructions, she was just doin' what I asked.  As ya can see, I am definitely alive."

When Moretti came out of the courtroom smiling, Steve opened his phone and dialed Tanis.  "Tanis, it's Steve.  Hold that story until tomorrow for me, ok?  Things look like they might be turning around."

Emily took the stand at four in the afternoon.

"Lieutenant Stephens," Bruce began after she had been sworn in, "Please tell us how you came to infiltrate a conspiracy to kidnap Giancarlo Moretti from the FBI safe house where he was being held pending the Vincent Gaudino trial."

"Well, my first classes in California Law started at the academy in September, and it was on a break when I happened to overhear Martin Rossi on his cell phone . . . "

Taking frequent sips from her water, Emily talked for about ten minutes telling how she had first heard of Rossi's plan.  She had initially threatened to blackmail him, and then demanded to be included for part of the cut.  When it turned out he knew about her wealth and didn't believe she wanted the money, she had managed to convince him that she was just interested in the thrills, referring to her infection with the BioGen virus, saying, "When you've already died, what's the thrill in living, unless you're living dangerously."

She'd never met Rossi's employer, whom she now knew to be Roger Gorini, but when the opportunity arose, she managed to contact him using Rossi's cell phone.  While Rossi was otherwise occupied, she told him all the little things she thought Rossi was doing wrong and what she would do to make the plan better.  She told the contact it was Rossi's fault the team wasn't gelling properly, and insisted that the kidnapping plot would fail if he were left in charge.

Less than an hour later, Rossi got a call from his contact asking him what he planned to do about the problems she had outlined.  When he had no satisfactory answers the contact had demanded that 'the woman' be put on the phone, and he had put Emily in charge on the spot.  By that time, she had met with Agent Wagner, and he had asked her to get as deep into the plot as she could, and she figured she couldn't go much deeper than running the plan . . .

"We trained hard for weeks, and, much to my surprise, the operation went off without a hitch until Rossi decided to kill me.  I saw his eyes narrow just before he pulled the trigger, and I was able to move so he hit my shoulder instead of my chest.  I took off with Moretti in the back of the van, and suddenly, I was on my own."

Emily closed her eyes and rubbed her chest as the memories of those first few panicky hours set her heart to pounding.  When it happened, the heightened tension and the accompanying adrenaline rush had been almost exhilarating.  Now, they were merely painful.  She heard quiet, concerned murmurs throughout the courtroom, but for once Judge Greer did not bang his gavel.

"Lieutenant, are you quite all right?" Greer asked.

Emily nodded.  "I just need a moment, Sir," she gasped.  Draining her water glass, she then handed it to Bruce to refill, and while he was occupied, she took a deep breath and willed herself to relax.  Squaring her shoulders, she spared a glance for her worried friends and family before facing her lawyer to say, "I'm ready to continue."

"Why didn't you go directly to Agent Wagner or Chief Sloan for help?" Bruce asked.

"Well, I figured Rossi, Marino, and Velasquez were just the tip of the iceberg.  If they were so easy to flush out, there had to be more corrupt cops buried deep in the department.  Moretti wasn't safe until someone got them out in the open and put them in jail.  I trusted Chief Sloan, and to a lesser extent, Agent Wagner and Commander Banks, but I couldn't trust the people who were working for them, so I couldn't safely turn Moretti over to them."

"And is that why you disobeyed orders to bring him in?"

"Yes.  My assignment was to get Mr. Moretti safely to the Gaudino trial, no matter what.  Anything that conflicted with that was irrelevant."

"Now, you are accused of stealing cell phones from a number of people.  You have stipulated to the testimony of most of those witnesses, and have done nothing to impeach the word of the four who were called to testify, yet you are pleading not guilty to the charges.  Can you explain that?"

"Yes, Sir.  I don't deny taking the cell phones, so it made sense to stipulate to the testimony of those witnesses.  I do, however, object to calling what I did theft.  The police, the National Guard, and all of the armed services are allowed to commandeer civilian property in a crisis.  Usually they are required to tell why, but under the circumstances, it was impossible for me to do so without compromising Mr. Moretti's safety.  I did the best I could under very difficult circumstances.  I might have inconvenienced some citizens, but no one was hurt, and I tried to return all the items I took.  I wish it hadn't been necessary, because when something personal like that just disappears, it makes people feel a little less secure, but I couldn't think of any other viable options for staying in touch without being tracked back to my location.  I decided to plead not guilty to the charges, and trust the court to decide whether it was theft or merely commandeering the items I needed to complete my assignment."

Emily went on to talk about life in hiding with Moretti.  She told about the different names under which she rented apartments and purchased vehicles, and she talked about helping Moretti lose weight and improve his stamina in case he had to go on the run again any time soon.  She discussed the two sting operations that netted five dirty cops and six mafia thugs, including Joey Russo, who led them to Roger Gorini's secret apartment in the warehouse.  She tried to tell them about drugging Harold, the janitor, on her first visit to the courthouse, but Bruce interrupted her.

"And on the fifteenth, I came here early to see if the trial was legitimate or just a trap to get Mr. Moretti and me into custody.  I . . . "

"Your Honor, may I confer with my client!"  Bruce covered the microphone and turned it off before the judge could rule.  He knew whispering to her on the stand in the middle of her testimony would look incriminating, but if he didn't shut her up, she would definitely go to jail.

"Briefly, Mr. Delong."

Leaning forward, Bruce whispered, "Dammit, Em, I told you not to go into that here."

"But I'm trying to show remorse," she murmured back.

Bruce muttered something unintelligible and said softly, "No, you're not, you're letting your conscience get ahead of your common sense and trying to assuage your guilt for frightening the old man.  You can't afford a conscience right now.  If you want to say you're sorry, tell him in person, not on the stand.  That matter was not brought before the court, and probably won't be if you just keep your mouth shut about it.  If you go telling the court how sorry you are for drugging the janitor against his will and leaving him locked in a closet while you impersonated him, you are confessing to assault under oath, and Bressler will have your ass in jail by sunset."

"But Bruce, I just  . . . "

He held up one finger to silence her and hissed.  "One more word about this, Em, and I will quit right now, I swear it.  If you want to go to jail, you go right ahead and purge your guilt.  If you want to go home, you shut up about the janitor and do what I tell you.  If you really need to tell him you're sorry, you can buy him a nice fruit basket when this is all over.  Understand?"

Surprised by the firm stand Bruce was taking, Emily just nodded meekly.  Bruce turned on the microphone and stepped away.

"On March 15, you found that the trial Chief Sloan had told you about was bogus, correct?"

"Yes," Emily replied, obviously not pleased that she was being muzzled on this.

"And what did you do?"

"I went back into hiding with Mr. Moretti."

"And it was after that when you discovered Chief Sloan's assistant was actually one of the leaks in the LAPD, correct?"

"Yes.  And then we did the two sting operations, and after that Mr. Moretti and I decided to lie low until the trial."

"Now, on the day of the trial you snuck Mr. Moretti into Judge Greer's chambers through the ventilation system, didn't you?"

"Yes."  

"Then what did you do?"

"I was wearing a disguise.  I came into the courtroom and watched the trial."

"Why were you wearing a disguise?"

"I suspected that I would be arrested on sight, and I wanted to be sure there was at least one person there whom I knew could and would protect Mr. Moretti until he testified.  The only person I absolutely knew I could count on was myself, so I stayed in character until the testimony was over.  I never counted on the shooting starting _after _the verdict."

Bruce considered having her describe the shooting, but when he glanced down and saw the small mound of shredded tissue in her lap, he decided the benefit to the case wasn't worth the strain it would put on his client.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Stephens," he said, gently patting her hand.  Turning to face the prosecution, and saying a prayer that he wouldn't get her talking about the janitor, Bruce said, "Your witness, Mr. Bressler."

Bressler did his level best to impeach Emily's testimony, but since she never denied any of her actions, he didn't have much luck.

"Did you have Mr. Moretti's permission to take him away from the FBI safe house on March 3?"

"No, Sir, he was unconscious before I had the chance to ask him."

"He was unconscious because a member of your team used chloroform to knock him out, correct?"

"Yes."

"So, if we define kidnapping as taking an individual somewhere without his or her consent, you kidnapped Mr. Moretti, did you not?"

"I suppose," Emily said incredulously, and she continued amid the startled murmurs of the crowd, "but if that's all it took to constitute kidnapping, every time a parent put an unwilling child to bed, the FBI would be called in.  Webster's defines it as, 'to seize and detain or carry away by unlawful force or fraud and often with a demand for ransom.'  That usage goes back to 1682."

As Bressler gave her a disbelieving look, she tapped her temple and said, "Photographic memory.  I looked it up when we started preparing for this trial.  I like to know the parameters in which I am working."

"All right then, what about Dr. Jesse Travis?  Didn't you take him at gunpoint from the parking lot of Community General hospital?"  

"I did point a gun at him, and I did take him from the parking lot; but when I called, I told him to meet me there with all the things he would need to treat a gunshot wound.  I wouldn't be inclined to say I forced him or that he came with me unwillingly or without his consent."

The cross examination went on in a similar fashion until almost five o'clock, with Bressler trying to get Emily to confess to at least one of the charges, and Emily neatly countering with perfectly frank and honest answers, never denying her actions, but never admitting they were wrong either.  Now, when he wanted the a witness to ramble on so he could pick at the small flaws in her story, she gave him the monosyllabic answers he had tried to limit his witnesses to earlier in the trial.  To the people in the courtroom, it very much appeared as if she were slowly beating him into submission as he went from stalking the open area before the bench like a cat on the prowl to sitting slouched behind the prosecution's table, elbows on the tabletop, head propped up in his hands.  Finally, grasping at straws, Bressler asked, "Did you steal a cell phone from any one of the individuals on the list of victims I submitted to this court?"

"I took cell phones from a number of individuals without their knowledge or consent," Emily explained patiently.  "I'm not sure if they are the people on your list or not.  I believe I was doing what was necessary to complete my assignment.  Whether that constitutes stealing or commandeering necessary resources is something I am leaving up to Judge Greer to decide."

Finally, Bressler sighed, leaned back in his seat, threw up his hands, and said, "No further questions."

Judge Greer looked at the prosecutor blandly and then turned to Bruce and asked, "Redirect, Mr. Delong?"

"Yes, thank you, Your Honor."

First Bruce asked a lot of yes or no questions to summarize Emily's testimony.

"Did you drug Mr. Giancarlo Moretti with chloroform, and, with the assistance of Martin Rossi, John Velasquez, and Donald Marino remove him from an FBI safe house?"

"Yes."

"Did you do so at the request of Agent Ron Wagner?"

"Yes."

"Did he ask you to do so because he believed Mr. Moretti was no longer safe at the location from which you removed him?"

"Yes."

"Were Rossi, Marino, and Velasquez also involved at the request of Agent Wagner?"

"No, they were kidnapping Mr. Moretti for hire on behalf of another individual."

"Whom the police have now identified as the late Roger Gorini, correct?"

"Yes."

"Was Agent Wagner's plan for you to move Mr. Moretti to a safer location and then flush out the individual who had hired Rossi, Marino, and Velasquez?"

"Yes, but when Rossi tried to kill me, that plan fell apart."

"Why didn't you just turn Mr. Moretti over to the LAPD then?"

"Because I had promised Agent Wagner to protect Mr. Moretti, no matter what, and at the time, I wasn't sure if there were other dirty cops involved.  I had no way of knowing if he'd actually be safe with the LAPD."

"So, you went into hiding, and when Chief Sloan ordered you to bring him in, you chose to disobey orders and keep him hidden instead, correct?"

"Yes.  I could not, in good conscience, turn him over to Chief Sloan until I knew any other corrupt cops in the LAPD had been exposed and jailed so that they couldn't harm Mr. Moretti."

"Were you aware that you were considered a wanted fugitive at that point?"

"Yes."

"Then why did you continue to evade the police?"

"Because I knew turning myself in and handing Mr. Moretti over to police protection would jeopardize his safety."

"Didn't it also jeopardize your career, and possibly your freedom?"

"I suppose so, but considering I am already independently wealthy, my job was a small price to pay."

"And what about your freedom?  You must have some regard for that."

"Of course I do."

Suddenly, the rhythm of the question and answer was shattered when Emily had to stop and think about what she wanted to say.  "I treasure my freedom.  Due to illness and bad decisions, my freedom was sorely limited on three different occasions for a total of about six years.  That's almost twenty percent of my life, nearly half my adult life."

She fell silent again for a moment, and took a few sips of water as she struggled to find a way to explain why she had risked everything for an aging mobster.  "When you are responsible for another human being, when you take responsibility for another person's life, well, you have to be willing to put that above everything.  When you weigh a man's life," she held out her left hand as if feeling the weight in her palm, "against anything else, even your own freedom," she held out her right hand like the other half of a balance scale, "that life has to be worth more."  She let her left hand sink as if it were the heavier of the two objects and brought her right hand up, closed it, and curled against her chest.  "If you can see things any other way, then there's not much point in saying you are protecting someone, because there is no way of knowing, when push comes to shove, if you will do what it takes to keep him safe."

"So you were willing to take any risk to keep Mr. Moretti safe?"  
  


"Well, yes and no," She stopped and sipped some more water to give herself time to think.  "Any risk to myself was acceptable.  I had agreed with Agent Wagner to do a job, and I was determined to get it done properly, no matter what.  I wasn't surprised to be arrested later, and I am not surprised that we are here now.  The prospect of going to jail does frighten me, but Giancarlo Moretti is alive, and Vincent Gaudino is in jail, and I helped make that happen.  On the other hand, I had no intention of ever endangering any civilians."

"What about Dr. Travis?" Judge Greer interrupted for the first time that day, which was his prerogative since Emily had given up her right to a jury trial.  "You admit to taking him at gunpoint."

Emily blushed slightly and smiled, "Actually I asked for Dr. Steven Sloan first.  I figured since he was my boyfriend, he would probably come willingly, but he had already left for the day.  I knew Dr. Travis had been involved in police investigations before, and I knew he'd seen some pretty hairy situations in the past, so I figured he would be more able to cope than other doctors if my circumstance suddenly became difficult before he was through treating me."

"But you took him at gunpoint, didn't you?"

"Yes, Sir.  I suspected he would have gone with me quite willingly if I had asked nicely.  Now that I know him better, I am sure that would have been the case, but at the time, I needed help and I couldn't risk him saying no."

"I see."  The judge frowned.  He had the distinct impression that there was more to the story than met the eye, but unless the prosecution could prove it, he could do nothing about it.  He couldn't deny that she had done everything possible to limit the danger to innocent citizens, but he realized that she had manipulated the system, and he didn't like it.  The fact that Dr. Travis hadn't pressed charges for kidnapping only proved to Greer that he would have gone willingly had he been allowed to choose.  He suspected that Lieutenant Stephens had used the gun just for show so that if he was questioned, the doctor could say he was forced.  He didn't like the idea that Dr. Travis had been able to aid and abet a fugitive with impunity, and it worried him that Lieutenant Stephens could actually think that many steps ahead of the police and the courts.  If she really was corrupt, and if she really was as clever as she seemed, then he and his court, the prosecutor and the defense attorney, and the law itself could all be pawns in a larger game she was playing without their knowledge, and he liked that idea least of all.  Of course, he knew Giancarlo Moretti wouldn't have pressed kidnapping charges either, had he been given a choice, but as a federal witness, it was no longer his decision to make.

"You may resume your questioning, Mr. Delong," the judge pronounced.

"I have just one more question, Your Honor."  Bruce turned to Emily and asked, "Lieutenant Stephens, did you at any time have any intention of harming Mr. Moretti or turning him over to any individual who was likely to harm him?"

"No, Sir, never."

Bruce turned to face Judge Greer.  "I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor, and no further witnesses to call.  The defense rests."

The judge looked at his watch and then at both lawyers.  "It is nearing six o'clock, but I want this trial finished today.  I am declaring a thirty-minute recess.  When we come back, I will hear closing statements.  Lieutenant Stephens, you are dismissed from the witness stand."


	34. Vindication and Validation

(Chapter 34.  Judge Greer's home and courtroom, the beach house, Valley Bureau Police headquarters.  July 2-4, 2033.)

Judge Jason A. Greer rolled over in bed and lay there with his eyes shut.  He could feel the light of the digital numbers on the alarm clock beating at his eyelids, mocking him.  He opened his eyes to find it was nearly two o'clock.  After a few minutes, he rolled over again and attempted to go to sleep.  As he tried to doze off, he continued deliberating the case before him.

He liked Lieutenant Stephens, there was no denying that, but then, he'd sent a lot of likeable people to jail in his days on the bench.  She was clever, and she hadn't wasted his time with a lot of repetitive testimony.  Then again, she was too clever by half.  She never once denied any of Bressler's allegations, but she had convincingly argued that none of her actions were actually crimes.  And she had certainly put Bressler in his place a time or two.  He was impressed with her, and he didn't want to be.  If he didn't find her so admirable, it wouldn't be such a hard decision.

He turned over and stared at the clock again.  Five minutes past two, and he hadn't had a wink of sleep yet.  He rolled over again.  _This is ridiculous!  The woman drugged Moretti and took him away from a federal safe house with the aid of three crooked cops.  She's a thief, and she repeatedly evaded arrest.  She made fools of the police with her elaborate disguises.  Hell, she even drugged poor Harold so she could slip into his skin and spy on my court!  And sneaking Moretti into **my** chambers the day of the trial, how **dare **she?  She has made a mockery of the police, the law, the courts, and **me**!  _He punched his pillow a few times to make it more comfortable, took a deep breath, and tried to clear his head.  Harold's assault had not been brought before the court, and his own embarrassment didn't dare enter into his decision.

He rolled over again and got out of bed to fix himself a glass of warm milk.  Maybe that would help him sleep.  As he shuffled out to the kitchen, he continued worrying over the testimony he had heard during the day.  Bressler had been the only person in the courtroom who wanted Stephens convicted.  Even her supposed victims wanted to see her walk, but Greer was a man governed by the rule of law, not molded by the changeable winds of popular opinion.

After turning on the light over the range, he found a glass and a saucepan and got the milk out of the refrigerator.  She hadn't really hurt anyone, and he wasn't sure she had ever intended to.  She had saved Chief Sloan's life, twice, and she'd gotten Moretti safely to court for Gaudino's trial.  Still, lack of malice and even lack of any real harm done, did not constitute innocence.  He'd sent many people to prison for so-called victimless crimes like gambling, pandering, and prostitution.  

But did Lieutenant Stephens really commit any crime?  It all boiled down to one thing.  Was Mr. Moretti at any point really a kidnap victim?  Moretti himself didn't think so, but as a protected federal witness, it didn't much matter what he thought.

As he poured the milk into the pan, he heard a scuffling sound and looked up to see his wife coming into the kitchen.

"Caroline?  Sweetheart, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Waking me and preventing me from falling asleep are two very different things, Jason, dear."

He smiled ruefully.  "Point taken, darling.  I'm sorry for that, too."

"Apology accepted.  Let me do that," she said, moving toward the stove.

"No, it's all right, sweetheart.  I've got it."

"I'm sure you do," she said, "but you always scald it or scorch it, and I wake in the morning to find a an abandoned glass of milk with a skin on top or a nasty brown mess in the bottom of my good saucepan.  Now, sit down at the table and let me fix it for you."

As she took over from him, he gave her a peck on the cheek.  Instead of taking a seat as ordered, he stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her for a moment, burying his face in her hair.  Once it had been dark, dark brown, but now it was all silver.  It was still silky, and smelled wonderful.  He dropped another kiss on the back of her neck, murmured, "Thank you, dearest," and finally moved over to the table.

While her husband sat at the table ruminating in the dim light, Caroline Greer added some more milk to the pan, got out a glass for herself, and dropped some bread in the toaster.  When the toast popped, she buttered it and put it on a plate.  Then she poured the warm milk for herself and her husband, and stirred in some honey, knowing the sweetener was a mild natural sedative.  Balancing the drinks carefully on the edge of the plate, she moved over to the table.  Setting one glass in front of Jason and the plate of toast between them, she took her seat opposite him and said, "It seems to me you have a dilemma between the letter of the law and the spirit of it."

"I can't talk about this case until I have reached my verdict, Caroline."

"Then listen.  I'll do all the talking."  She took a bite of toast and smiled at him primly.  "The press updated this case every hour on the hour until you adjourned, and COURT-TV has been right outside your courtroom all day.  I know I didn't hear all the testimony first hand, but I think I have a pretty good idea what was going on inside."

"You do, huh?"

"Yes, I do, and I think, if she was just doing her job then everything else has to be viewed through that lens.  Was it essential to doing her job or not?"

"And if she was up to something else?"

"You mean, what if she didn't do everything she said she did as a master plan to save Moretti?"

"Yes, what if, as circumstances changed, she decided saving him was the only way to save herself from serving time?"

"Then Warren Bressler should have proven it."  Caroline smiled and wondered when Jason would realize that she had got him to talk about the case after all.  She didn't know if other judges discussed their cases with their wives, and she didn't care.  Jason was his own man, and she knew she would never be able to sway him from what his heart told him was right.  All she had ever done was help him hear what his heart was saying.

"You know, I had no intention of discussing this with you," he said.

"Don't blame yourself for the slip, dear," she said finishing her drink, "I'm very wily."  She got up and crossed the kitchen to the sink where she rinsed her glass.  "You coming?" she asked as she headed back to bed.

"In a minute."

"Ok, dear, but don't stay up too long."

He nodded in her general direction and munched a piece of toast.  Moretti had lived to testify.  Gaudino was in jail.  Sloan was alive.  Stephens took four bullets, lost a kidney, and was on trial for federal charges.  He emptied his glass and took it to the sink to rinse it out.  While he was there, he peeked into the saucepan, and smiled when he saw a thin brown crust on the bottom.

"Emmy, honey, wake up."  

"Mmmmm," Emily sighed and rolled over.

"Come on, sweetheart, wakey-wakey."

Emily smiled as she felt cool, gentle fingers brush her hair from her face.  She finally opened her eyes to see her mother sitting on the edge of the bed, smiling down at her.

"Did you sleep well?"

A yawn and a stretch were followed by a yelp and a rubbing of her chest as the scar tissue there pulled.  "Damn!"

"Em," her mother chided gently.

"Sorry, Mama, I slept fine, thank you."  She rubbed her bleary eyes and looked at the clock beside the bed.  "Why are you waking me at seven in the morning, Mama?"

"Well, Bruce called about ten minutes ago . . . "

"The judge has rendered a verdict," Emily said, sitting bolt upright in bed.  "How soon do I have to be in court?"  She swung her legs off the mattress, stood up, turned very pale very suddenly, and sank back down on top of the comforter as a wave of dizziness overcame her.

"Nine o'clock," Olivia said, "but if you don't take it easy you won't get there anyway.  Now, what would you like for breakfast?  Daddy and Uncle Ken are cooking so Aunt Sue and I can help you get ready."

Even with help, it had taken Emily over an hour and several bouts of tears to get showered and dressed.  Between the pain she still suffered from her injuries, her frustration with her mother's hovering, the lingering exhaustion of the previous day, and the anxiety of facing Judge Greer again so soon, it was as if the strain of the trial had used up every last drop of her self control.  Now, she was just floating in a sea of emotions, going whichever way the current took her, and it was a stormy sea at that.  Finally, she sat at the breakfast table poking at her eggs listlessly.

"Come on, Em," Kenney said, "I know your dad and I cooked, so it's not that good, but it _is_ edible."

Emily tried a smile, but it died aborning, her chin quivered, and the tears came again.  "I'm sorry, Uncle Ken," she sniffled, "I can't.  I'm just . . . I'm so . . . "

"Scared?"

She nodded, and he moved closer and put an arm around her.  She put her head on his shoulder and cried.

"It's ok, Em," Kenney said softly.  "I think we're all a little worried."

"Just drink your milk, baby, so you can take your medicine," her Aunt Sue said and stroked her hair.  "Then your dad and Kenney can go get dressed and we'll be on our way."

After the welcome home celebration three days ago, Ken and Sue had stuck around, lying low and tending to housework, the garden, and shopping while Em and Bruce had worked on her defense, and Liv and Keith had worried about Em.  They had been hurt yesterday when Emily had asked them not to come to the trial, but now they realized that, with the rest of the family being walking wounded, it was up to them to keep things moving along.  When Emily nodded and took the glass of milk in a very shaky hand and held out the other for her pills, Sue placed the tablets in her palm, and cleared the five plates from the table.  Three of them, Liv's, Keith's, and Emily's, hadn't been touched.

Ron and Amanda were already showered and dressed, and Amanda was just putting the breakfast dishes in the dishwasher when they got the call.  They had always tended to start the day earlier than their friends.  Amanda was a naturally perky morning person, much to her children's disgust, and while Ron could never be described as perky, he liked to start his day before dawn just so he could see the sunrise and, now more than ever so he could be thankful for another chance at life every day.

"Of course we'll be there," Amanda replied, and looking at her watch, she decided she and Ron still had time for a leisurely cup of coffee and a look through the paper before they left for the courthouse.

At about eight o'clock in the morning, Steve and his son were jogging steadily along the beach together.  They had just gone south to the pier, and now they were headed north, past the house, to where they would run by Alex and Marilyn's place, play with the dogs for a minute, and then run down the sidewalk back to the house.  As they trotted along, they looked to the house and saw Maribeth waving at them.  They both waved back and continued jogging, but then she held the phone up and yelled.  The surf drowned out most of her words, but they both heard the word 'verdict' loud and clear.  Without a word between them, they turned and ran full speed up the beach to the house.

Giancarlo Moretti and his grandson 'Fredo were just getting back from a walk around the block.  After a two week suspension about three months ago, 'Fredo and his friend Donovan were reinstated, and both young men had been working nights ever since.  Often, the young cop would be coming in as his grandfather was going out, and they would head off for a walk together, one to wind down after a difficult night, the other to get geared up for an interesting day.  

As they approached Moretti's apartment, 'Fredo looked around and put an arm out to stop his grandfather's progress.  "Something's wrong, Gramps," he said.

Moretti looked around.  "Len's not here."

'Fredo nodded.  In the days and weeks following the Gaudino trial and Emily's shooting, Lenny Murdoch and Moretti had formed an unlikely friendship.  Now, Lenny, the reporter whom Leigh Ann had suckered into writing that first scandalous story about Emily Stephens and Chief Sloan, stopped in almost every morning to join Moretti and 'Fredo for breakfast.  The fact that he wasn't there was a sure sign that something big was up.

Moretti hung back as 'Fredo carefully approached the apartment.  Moments later, he breathed a huge sigh of relief as his grandson called, "Gramps, c'mere, he left you a note."

Moretti opened the proffered envelope and read the letter silently.  As he frowned, 'Fredo asked, "What's wrong?"

"Maybe nothin'," Moretti said.  "Judge Greer has a verdict.  He's gonna read it at nine before he begins his scheduled business."

"You want me to come with?"

"If you're up ta it.  Ya know if ya fall asleep he'll put ya in jail for contempt."

"Oh, I think I can stay awake for another hour.  Mind fixing me some breakfast while I freshen up?"

Moretti checked his watch.  "Ya got ten minutes, kid."

"I'll be back in five."

True to his word, 'Fredo had showered, changed, and was back at his granddad's door in five minutes flat.  Moretti came out of the apartment handing him a soy sausage and egg sandwich and a bottle of juice.  "We should make it just in time," he said.

At five minutes before nine, Emily sat at the defense table, hands folded in front of her on the glossy wooden surface, her back and arms tense and rigid.  She tried hard to focus her mind, but the only thought she could muster was to wonder what the people watching must have been thinking.  Did they think she was meditating?  Praying?  

She felt Bruce lean in close to her.  "Em?  You ok?"

She nodded, took a deep breath to calm herself, and continued staring at her hands on the tabletop.  All too soon, she heard the bailiff.

"Hear ye, hear ye, this court is now in session, the honorable Judge Jason A. Greer, presiding.  Silence is commanded.  All rise!"

The crowd rose as one, Emily struggling to keep up with them, as Judge Greer entered the courtroom.  There was a swish of silk as his black robe billowed around him, and he strode purposefully to the bench.  He paused a moment before he sat and surveyed his courtroom.  His gaze fell on Emily, and they locked eyes for a moment.  She tried to read his expression, but he gave nothing away.  After a moment, he took his seat.

"Be seated," the bailiff called, and the audience sat, Emily again just half a beat behind.

Greer took another minute to look around the courtroom.  It was packed.  Lieutenant Stephens' parents sat directly behind her, with another couple he had not seen during the trial to their right, and Deputy Chief Sloan's son to their left.  The Deputy Chief sat next to his offspring, and alongside him, sat his wife and father.  Doctor Travis and his wife and daughter sat beside them.  In the next row back, he saw Agent Wagner in his wheelchair at the end of the row, and beside him, his wife and children.  A redheaded officer sat beside the Wagners' daughter, and Moretti, his son, and grandson sat beside him.  Commander Banks, and Chief of Police Tanis Archer sat toward the back with Lieutenant Stephens' doctor and freelance reporter Lenny Murdoch.  The rest of the room was filled with police and reporters.  There were a lot of people in court who wanted to see the lieutenant go free, and there were at least as many who were there out of simple curiosity or because they had been assigned to write a story.  Harold the janitor stood in the very back.

"Last night was the first time in years that I have actually lost sleep over the proceedings in my courtroom," Greer began very bluntly.  "Lieutenant Stephens, I put that down to you."

Emily sat up a little straighter and took a deep breath.

"The fact that you never denied any of your actions should have made this an easy case to decide, but with your clever arguments, you made it quite complicated.  By claiming that everything you had done had been for the sole purpose of bringing Mr. Moretti safely in to testify, you presented me with two difficult questions.  

"Were you really just doing your job, and was everything you did necessary to completing your assignment?  I have to say frankly, I still don't know.  I have been following your case since the day Mr. Moretti disappeared, and it seems to me there were times when you were having far too much fun making fools of the police to be protecting your witness properly.  Once you had Mr. Moretti in your custody, the two of you should have just kept your heads down and waited for the trial, but instead, you had several little adventures of your own.  There was, if I recall from testimony, a walk in the park, a trip to the bank, a run on the beach, a visit to Mann's Chinese Theatre, a sting operation using the witness you were supposed to protect as _bait_, and some comic book super-hero antics.  

"Of course, Agent Wagner's order to get Mr. Moretti to the Gaudino trial to testify 'no matter what' practically gave you carte blanche to run amok, and I think you took full advantage.  Whatever else you did, though, you kept Mr. Moretti alive.  You also assisted in the arrests of fifteen mafia henchmen, including nine within the LAPD who would have proved an undeniable threat to Mr. Moretti if they had gone unchecked, and you saved Deputy Chief Sloan's life in this very room.

"I know you are highly intelligent, Lieutenant Stephens, and I have seen just how crafty you can be on more than one occasion.  I believe you were manipulating the FBI, the LAPD, and the law from the beginning.  I do not like people who play lightly with the law, Lieutenant."  

Emily's shoulders sagged, and a gasp of shock rippled across the courtroom followed by concerned murmurs.  The judge banged his gavel and called for order.

"I believe you used unnecessary force to get Mr. Moretti out of the safe house, but under the auspices of Agent Wagner's orders, it was not 'unlawful force'.  I believe you aimed a gun at Dr. Travis to protect him from charges of aiding and abetting a fugitive.  As long as he didn't appear to go willingly, he wouldn't be charged.  However, since that matter was not brought before this court, I can't let it enter into my decision.  I believe you disobeyed the orders to turn Mr. Moretti in more because you wanted the challenge of outwitting the police than because you believed he was in danger.  I also believe you refused the right to a jury trial because you wanted to see if you were clever enough to fool me."

The judge folded his hands on the bench before him, leaned forward, and eyed Emily closely.  "It did not work," he spat.

Emily sat straight and tall in her seat.  Her only reaction was to flinch at each of his words.  She heard her mother begin to cry behind her, but she resisted the urge to turn around and comfort her.  She heard other familiar voices expressing shock and surprise, but still she sat, and waited.

At a nod from the judge, the bailiff called, "The defendant will rise to hear the verdict."

Shakily, with Bruce supporting her by the elbow, Emily came to her feet to face her doom.

Judge Greer examined her like a bug under a microscope for a moment longer.  "Lieutenant Stephens, I believe you were carefully and consciously balancing on a thin wire between that which is legal and that which is not.  Fortunately for you, you came down on just the right side of it.  I believe you were up to no good, Lieutenant, but I am not certain.  I don't know if it was just mischief or if it was actually malice, but whatever you were doing, you didn't leave enough evidence to prove any criminal activity beyond a reasonable doubt.  It is my judgment that Mr. Bressler was unable to prove his case.  I find the defendant not guilty on all charges.  Lieutenant, you are free to go."

Emily felt her knees go weak, and she was only vaguely aware of Bruce helping her back into her chair.  She heard the shouts of joy behind her as she watched Judge Greer leave the courtroom, his black robe fluttering in the breeze of his brisk movements.  Suddenly she was crying, and her mother was holding her, and her father was hugging both of them.  She saw Bressler shaking Bruce's hand and Bruce shrugging modestly and jerking his head in her direction.  Then the bailiff began clearing the courtroom until it was just Emily, Bruce, Steven, and her parents.

"Lieutenant!  Lieutenant Stephens!"

A throng of reporters assailed Emily with shouts and pleas for attention as Steven wheeled her out of the courthouse.  They had previously used a back entrance to avoid the press, but now they were leaving through the front doors.  Yesterday, Emily had been so engrossed in the fight for her freedom that she had not noticed the how many journalists had begun to take an interest in her case.  Today, what Steven had planned to be a triumphal exit from the halls of justice looked as if it was about to become a hasty retreat.  The sheer number of reporters waiting to hear what Emily had to say shocked him, too.

As he veered off and headed for the handicapped access ramp, he heard Emily speak soft and low.  "Steven, wait.  I've earned this moment."

Smiling slightly, glad she felt strong enough to speak to them, he stopped and said, "If you're sure you're up to it."

"Oh, I'm sure."

"Lieutenant!" one voice called above the rest, "How does it feel to know you have been exonerated?"

At first, Emily looked bewildered, but then she took a deep breath, opened her mouth to speak, paused a moment, and laughed aloud.  "I have never been speechless in my life.  I don't quite have the words to tell you how good it feels.  I guess I'm . . . grateful."

"Lieutenant Stephens!"  Emily looked in the direction of the new voice, and the woman continued talking.  "Zelotes Guzman, WKTW News.  Judge Greer had some stern words for you before he pronounced his verdict.  How do you feel about what he said, and do you have any reply?"

Emily thought about how to respond.  Finally, she said soberly, "My mama always told me nobody likes a smart aleck."

There was some laughter, but with an effort, she shouted them down.  It took her some time to recover from the exertion of yelling over them, but the reporters were anxious to get their stories written, so they waited patiently.  

"I am very used to being the clever one, always eager to outwit the competition, and to me, life has always been a competition, always about being smarter than someone else.  I was never a particularly nice person, never patient, never especially well liked, but I could outsmart anybody, and I would do so just to embarrass people.  I thought, when I became a cop, that I had outgrown that, but I guess I was wrong.

"I never intended to harm Mr. Moretti.  It was absolutely, positively, always my sole intent to keep Mr. Moretti safe.  The fact that the best Judge Greer could say about me was that I didn't leave behind enough evidence to prove I had committed any crimes tells me that I have a lot to think about."

"Did you expect to be considered a hero for saving Chief Sloan?" a voice called out from the crowd.

"No!"  It was clear to everyone by the expression on her face what a ludicrous suggestion Emily thought that was.  "I'm _not_ a hero, not by any stretch of the imagination, but when it was all said and done, I didn't expect anybody to question the honorableness of my intentions."

"Yet in court you said you weren't surprised to be brought to trial," someone said.  "So why are you surprised that the judge would question your honor?"

Emily didn't know who had called out the question, so she made it a point to make eye contact with as many of the reporters as she could.  "I knew I had done things for which I had to answer," she said, "things that required explanation.  It hurts me that Judge Greer did not believe I had the best of intentions all along, but I can't very well be upset that he found insufficient evidence to put me in jail, can I?"

When she finished her statement, Emily looked up and said softly to Steven, "Let's go."

As Steven prepared to push her away, another voice called out, "Now what are you going to do, Lieutenant?"

"I am going to go get some rest," she replied, raising her hand to again stop Steven from pushing her away.  "Judge Greer isn't the only one who spent a sleepless night."

"And what about for the rest of your life?" someone yelled.

"Excuse me?" Emily said.  "What exactly do you mean?"

"James Frear, Detroit News," the young man introduced himself.  "I have a source at Community General Hospital who says you have tried stem cell therapy three times and it has failed to take.  According to my source, you have also been determined an unsuitable candidate for any transplant procedures.  With a weak heart and only one kidney, you can't be a cop anymore.  Will you try any experimental procedures to repair your injuries so you can go back to work, or will you leave the police department and move on to something else?"

"Your source is right, sir," Emily said, "and I hope he or she realizes that his or her job is now in jeopardy.  If this person is a doctor, nurse, or other licensed health care provider, he or she could also lose his or her license.  My medical records are confidential, and if I was so inclined, I could bring a suite against Community General for the breach.  As for my future, if it is any of your business, I am not interested in trying experimental procedures; I have been scrutinized enough already."

"Do you still want to be a cop?"

"Very much so," she replied, "but, as you have already established through your source, my medical condition prohibits it.  Police work is the only thing I have ever done in my life that has made me feel as if I had done something _with_ my life.  I don't know what I will do now, so I guess the next thing on my agenda will be figuring that out.  Now, if you will all excuse me, I am rather tired."

The press continued to shout questions at her while a few officers held them at bay, but she ignored them as Steven pushed her chair over to the handicapped ramp and down to the waiting car.

"Mmmm," Emily moaned slightly and woke up when the car stopped.  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and yawned.  When she was properly awake, she looked around in confusion for a moment and then asked, "Daddy, where are we?"

"Steve and Maribeth's house."

Keith watched in amusement as his daughter's lips silently formed the names.  "Oh, you mean Chief Sloan and his wife?"

"Yeah," Keith replied, unable to conceal a laugh, "They invited everyone here for a victory celebration.  I know you're tired, but your mother and I were thinking you could just put in an appearance and thank everyone for their support, and then we could head home.  What do you say?"

Emily nodded.  "Sounds like a plan."

Knowing that the front steps of the beach house would prove a particular obstacle for her wheelchair, Emily asked her father to help her walk into the house.  As she slowly climbed the steps, she was surprised that it was much easier than she had expected.  With the trial over and her freedom secure, it seemed as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.  Still, she was grateful to sink into the nearest comfortable chair she could find upon entering the living room.

"Welcome to our home, Emily," Mark said as he brought her a glass of orange juice.  "Your Aunt Sue told me you and your folks were a little too worried to have breakfast, so Maribeth and I have taken the liberty of preparing brunch.  How would you like your eggs?"

"Over easy, please," she said, "and thank you, Mark."  She looked around at the room full of hovering people, most of whom had headed directly to the Sloans' house while she was still talking to the press.  Besides Steven's family and her own, Bruce was there, and Moretti, and Captain Cioffi and his son, 'Fredo.  The reporter she had seen at the courthouse talking to Leigh Ann during the Gaudino trial appeared to be with Moretti.  She frowned to see him and knew she would have to ask someone about that later.  All of the Bentley-Wagner clan was present, including the Captain Bentley-Wagner's wife and children, and to Emily's surprise and delight, her friend Alicia Geiger, who was clinging to CJ's arm, a bit overwhelmed by all the strangers.  Charles Donovan was sitting on the sofa with Hannah Wagner, and Commander Banks was off in the corner, talking to the Deputy Chief Sloan.  Alex and Jesse were there, too, along with their wives.

She was so overcome by the show of support, that she hadn't noticed Steven and Jesse's daughter, Lauren, handing around glasses of champagne until Steven placed one in her hand.  When Bruce raised his glass and led the group in singing, "For She's a Jolly Good Fellow," the tears started, and by the time they were finished singing, Emily's eyes and nose were red from tears, and her cheeks were red from embarrassment.

"Speech!" Jesse called, and to Emmy's dismay, the cry was taken up by all present.  She tried for a moment to turn them down, but then realized there was no way she could.  Raising one hand to call for quiet as she wiped her tears away with the other, she waited a moment for everyone to hush, and then, she began to speak.

"I know I didn't make it easy for any of you to believe in me," she said, "but I am so very glad you did.  I am delighted to be among you to celebrate today, and grateful that you all still had faith in me despite everything."  

Looking to Steve, she said, "Chief, I think next to my parents you suffered the most because of my actions.  I'm not sure why you don't hate me for the grief I caused you, but I'm thankful that you have forgiven me."

The tears started yet again, as she turned to Steven.  "Steven, you have been kind to me since the day we met.  Life shouldn't have to be difficult for you just because you care about me, but it has been.  Thank you for loving me anyway."

"Mama and Daddy . . . " a shudder moved through her, and then another, and suddenly, she was sobbing openly.  "Oh, God, I just don't know what to say."  Totally at a loss for words, she reached out to them, and as Liv and Keith moved forward to comfort their daughter, the rest of the group retreated to the deck, dining room, and kitchen to give them some privacy.

Leigh Ann Bergman sat in the commons area of her cellblock at the California Institution for Women in Corona.  She had just finished watching the noon news, and for her it was devastating.  That idiot judge had let Lieutenant Stephens go.  Deputy Chief Sloan was 'retiring after over fifty years of outstanding service,' according to one of the talking heads, and Chief Archer said he'd told her 'he had plans to spend a lot of time with his family and friends.'  Another reporter from the courthouse had said that Lieutenant Stephens and all of her supporters were planning to celebrate at the Sloan's house.

It sickened her.  They were partying while she was rotting in jail.  She'd have to do something about that.  She'd have to find a way to spoil their fun.  She headed back to her cell.  She had just enough time before lunch to write a couple of letters.

At six o'clock in the evening, the celebration at the Sloans' house was still going strong.  Jesse, Alex, their wives, and Dion's two oldest children, Amber and Reg, were playing Frisbee with the Martins' dogs.  The four dogs, four adults, and two children made quite a lot of noise on the beach, and Steve was glad his neighbors were tolerant people.  Mark, Liv, Keith, and Maribeth chatted on the deck while they all waited for Lauren to return from a dinner run to Bob's.  Ron and Amanda were sitting on a blanket further up the beach making a fuss over their youngest grandchild while their children wandered along the sand hand in hand with their respective partners.  Other people stood or sat about in small groups talking and laughing.

Steve knew his son was probably still in the spare room watching Emily sleep.  She had dozed off in her chair shortly after they had all watched the noon news together and again toasted her freedom and then his retirement.  Rather than wake her and move her out to the car for a thirty-minute ride home, Steven had eagerly offered the simple yet practical solution of moving her to the guestroom where she could sleep in peace.  

When he saw Lauren pulling up in the drive, Steve headed back the hall to get Steven, knowing that his goddaughter would find plenty of willing hands to help carry in the food.  The guest room door was slightly ajar, and without thinking, Steve peeked in.  Steven and Emily lay fully clothed on top of the covers.  Her arms were wrapped around his middle, her head resting on his chest.  He had one arm around her shoulders and the other resting at his side.  She was sleeping soundly, and he was watching her as if she were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Steve smiled at the scene.  He could remember holding Olivia like that when she came home after being missing for nearly a week.  The relief he had felt at finding she had simply been camping in the mountains was something he had never been able to put to words, and he supposed Steven had felt much the same way when Judge Greer acquitted Emily.  Steve had thought then that his destiny was inextricably intertwined with Olivia's, and now, he supposed it was, though not in the way he had imagined.  His son was so obviously in love that Steve knew there would be no surprising anyone when they announced their engagement, which he imagined would be soon because he had overheard Steven rehearsing a conversation he planned to have with Keith earlier in the week.  Suddenly Steve felt embarrassed to intrude on such an intimate moment.  He went back down the hall a few steps and called to his son.  

"Steven!"  He approached the door.  "Oh, hey," he whispered, "Lauren is here with dinner.  Do you want to come out and eat?"

"Hey, Pops," Steven whispered back.  "Yeah, I'll be out in a minute, thanks."  He looked down at Emily and then back to his father.  "Do you think I should wake her?"

Steve gave it a moment's thought and said, "Nah, if she can sleep this long, she probably needs her rest.  She'll wake up when she's hungry, and we'll just make sure to save something for her, ok?"

Steven nodded.  "Ok, Pops.  I'll be along in a minute."****

****

****

****

****

Lunch had been chicken and rice.  Dinner had been pork chops.  She had planned to get this done earlier, but it had taken her a while to work up the nerve.  She had wanted to put it off until lights out, but she couldn't do that.  She wanted to be sure Chief Sloan would hear about it today.

Someone on her cellblock had managed to smuggle the blade to a utility knife out of the upholstery shop.  She had bartered a couple of novels and a pack of gum for it.  She placed the letters where they would be easily found, then turned away from the cell door and shoved the rolled up washcloth into her mouth.  She didn't think she'd cry out from the pain, but if she did, that would muffle it.  She didn't want to draw attention to herself.  She wanted to finish the job before anyone knew what she was doing.  Pulling the blade from its hiding place where she had jammed it into the mattress, she began to cut, going deep and slicing her veins the long way, so they couldn't be fixed.

After he finished his dinner, Steven went into the house and washed the barbecue sauce from his hands.  Coming back out onto the deck, he saw Keith and Liv sitting on a dune together, enjoying the surf and the sun.  Taking a deep breath and deciding there was no time like the present, he walked down to the beach and approached them.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stephens, may I speak to you for a moment?"

She felt very cold.  It hadn't hurt as much as she thought it would, and she was proud of herself that she hadn't cried out.  She spat out the washcloth from her mouth and curled up on the bed, the warm, ruby liquid flowing from her veins and soaking the mattress.  All she had to do now was go to sleep.  The sounds of the prison grew fainter and fainter.  She smiled and snuggled her face into the pillow and began to think of Mr. Gorini.  She sighed when he appeared before her, saying, "I've come for you, Little Bird," and the sounds of the prison disappeared altogether.

"Sloan residence," Steve answered the phone.  "This is he . . . What about her?"  The tone of Steve's question instantly telegraphed to everyone in the room that something bad was happening, and the conversations stopped.  "She did? . . . I see . . . How? . . . When? . . . No, no, please, send them _both _to me . . . I will forward hers when and if she is ready to read it . . . Will you, uh, will you convey my sympathies to her husband when he comes to claim her effects? . . . Thank you, I will also be contacting him myself . . . Yes, thank you for calling . . . Good bye."

Steve turned to face his family and friends.  Surprisingly, he didn't feel any grief or regret.  He didn't feel any satisfaction either.  He simply didn't feel anything about the news he had just received.  It was just information to be dealt with and passed along.

"That was the warden at the California Institution for Women in Corona.  Leigh Ann Bergman killed herself about an hour ago.  Slit her wrists.  She left letters for Emily and me.  I told him to send them both to me.  I don't think Em needs to deal with that right now."

The room was quiet for a few moments, then conversation resumed.  At first, the voices were subdued, but soon, the friends could no longer contain their enthusiasm for being together, and the party continued well into the night.

Steve smiled as he slipped out of the house at about six in the morning.  Emily had woken up about halfway through dinner, surprised them all by creeping out unassisted to the deck to join them, and then promptly fell asleep again.  Steven had again taken her back to the spare room and suggested that, rather than disturbing her, Liv, Keith, Kenny, and Sue could all go back to Brentwood whenever they were ready, and just bring her a change of clothes in the morning.  

Steve didn't have to wonder if he was the only one who saw through his son's desperate ploy to keep his beloved close.  One look around and he knew everyone could tell what his son was up to.  When Olivia and Keith had agreed to the suggestion, Steven had gently scooped Emily up in his arms and carried her back down the hall, Olivia following at a not-too-discrete distance, fretting over her daughter and worrying whether she had taken her medicine.  Olivia had come back out smiling a few minutes later, and Steven hadn't been seen for the rest of the evening.

Now, Steve was on his way into the station one last time.  He had a few personal items he wanted to collect, and he preferred to get in and out before too many people had reported for the day shift.  He got in his truck and headed off down the Pacific Coast Highway.  He and Maribeth had already rented that sailboat he had been talking about, and early next week, they were heading for Catalina.  She had already made plans to go hiking up at Big Bear in the fall, and they were both sure there would be a wedding in the works before the year was out.  His mind swam with all the things he hoped to do with his family and friends now that he was free from the time constraints of his job, and he arrived at the precinct without even knowing it.

He went up the steps of the precinct, just as he had every morning that he reported for work for the past fifty-plus years.  All the while, he was aware that this was not just any morning.  It was his last morning wearing the uniform of the LAPD.  The place seemed a bit busier than usual for half past six in the morning, and he wondered if something was up.  _But that's not your worry any more, is it, Sloan?  _Stopping at the door, he took a deep breath and shook off the melancholy that tried to overwhelm him.  He was going to spend the rest of his life enjoying his time with his friends and family.  If he was lucky, he might even have grandkids to spoil before too long.  There was no sense in being sad!

Entering the precinct, just as he always had, he went up to the desk sergeant and said, "Morning, Bob, anything interesting happen overnight?"  When he spotted the American flag hanging behind the desk, he realized for the first time that today was Independence Day.  _That explains the extra personnel.  _Usually, he and Maribeth had a cookout for all their friends at the beach house, but this year, with everything else going on in their lives, they had both forgotten it.

"No, Chief," Bob replied, "just a little more than the usual bloodshed and mayhem, but with the holiday, that's not surprising.  More fireworks violations than last year, though, and the rowdy drinkers have started early.  I did hear about Leigh Ann, though.  I don't know quite what to make of that."

Steve shook his head.  "Neither do I, Bob, and I thought I knew the woman.  I guess she was just more disturbed than any of us realized."

"I suppose," Bob agreed.  "It's a shame, though, that none of us noticed.  We might have been able to help her, or at least we could have saved us all a lot of grief."

"Maybe we could have," Steve replied, "but people like that have to want to be helped, and I think if she had wanted it, she would have done something to let someone know."

"Yeah, you're probably right, Chief," Bob said, and as Steve turned to go, he added, "Have a nice day, Sir, and Happy Fourth of July!"

Steve smiled and waved.  "Thanks, Bob, you, too."

It didn't take Steve long to pack up the few personal things he had in his office.  After his conversation with Bob, he just wanted to get out of the building as quickly as possible and never look back.  One box was full of framed certificates and plaques acknowledging his achievements.  Another contained family photos, his coffee mug, a pen and pencil set Maribeth had given him, a picture of him in his dress uniform that Steven had drawn in first grade titled "My Daddy Iz a Polise Man", and a few other items that had traveled with him from office to office as he had moved up the ranks.  It wasn't a lot for fifty years on the job, and that made him a little sad.  He'd spent so much time here at his home away from home, and now that he was leaving, it surprised him to realize that everything that had helped him make his mark on the place could fit into two cardboard boxes.  Once he carried them out, it would be like he had never been there.

He put the lids on the boxes and placed one on top of the other so he could carry them both out in one trip.  Then he unclipped his badge from his belt, intending to leave it on the desk, and found that at first, he couldn't do it.  He had more than once offered to give it up when things he was asked to do within the department conflicted with his conscience, and it had been taken away from him a few times when things he had done conflicted with department policy, but he had never realized before just how much a part of him the badge was.  For a while, he just stood there, feeling its weight in his palm, rubbing his thumb over the engraving.  The small lump of gold-plated metal weighed less than four ounces, but it had defined who he was and what he stood for throughout most of his adult life.  _Will I know who I am without it?_  He felt his throat tighten and his chest constrict, and his eyes burned.  He closed his hand around the badge and squeezed it tightly for a moment, memorizing the feel of it in his hand.  Then he laid it carefully in the center of the green desk blotter, picked up his boxes, and headed out.

It took a little maneuvering, but he managed to get out of his private office without dropping anything, and he was just headed through the outer office when Cheryl came in with Cioffi and Donovan in tow.

"Hey, Chief," Cheryl said and smiled at him.  "You've come to clean out your office, I see."

"Uh, yeah," he said uneasily.  "I didn't want to interrupt your day, so I tried to get it done early."

"Officers, don't just stand there and watch, help the man with his boxes," Cheryl ordered, and though Steve tried to protest, the two rookies each took a box from his hands.

"Oh, uh, I have some keys for you," Steve said, and took out his key ring.  "That's the outer office, the private office, the master to the building, and the service elevator.  You will find there are times when it gets particularly hectic that it helps to be able to slip in and out without being seen."

Cheryl smiled at him and said, "Thanks, Chief.  Let me walk you down."

"Uh, no, no thanks, that's all right.  You were obviously getting ready to do something.  I'll just take my boxes and . . . "

"Nonsense," Cheryl said.  "Anything I was going to do can wait a few minutes while we walk out with you.  Cioffi and Donovan can carry your things for you."

"Cheryl, it's all right.  I've got it."

"Steve," she said, "I insist."  Before he could protest again, she looped her arm through his and led him down the hall to the elevator that would take them down to the main lobby.  The doors swished open, and they stepped in.  Cioffi and Donovan followed them and moved to the back of the car.  

When the doors swished open again, Steve stepped out into a silent lobby.  A single voice snapped, "Ten HUT!" and the sharp crack of feet stamping echoed through the building as scores of cops came to attention.  Speechlessly, Steve walked out of the elevator and down the nearest line of officers.  Men and women he had served with for years stood side by side with rookies he had just recently brought in.  Cops from all over LA were there, people the commissioners had pulled from his bureau to rebuild the department after the Mob scandals of three years ago.  As he reached the end of the row, Cheryl fell in beside, Lorena Martinez, Muti Al-Mannai, and Li Hong, the other three with whom he had faced down the mob back in 2007.  

"I . . .You . . . How did you arrange this?" he asked.

Cheryl couldn't hide a smile.  "I figured you'd try to sneak in and out without a fuss, so I had someone watching your house."  She pulled her features into a strict, serious expression then, and said, "Ready for your inspection, Sir!"

Feeling a bit overwhelmed by the show of respect, all Steve could do was walk through the ranks and inspect the troops.  There must have been a hundred cops crowded into the lobby and the halls that extended off of it.  It seemed that everyone who was under his command during the quake of 2005 was there.  Dion, his eyes bright with moisture, stood beside Maddie, one of the children from the early years at the Never Say Die Gym.  Numerous other young officers whom he had helped and encouraged along the way swelled the ranks.  Some of them had been kids in trouble when he met them.  Others had been children of people he had put in jail, youngsters he had taken an interest in when it seemed they had no one else to care.  

Tommy Park stood together with a few others from the motor pool.  He and his dad and Assistant District Attorney Susan Turner had cleared Tommy of murder charges about thirty-five years ago.  Tommy had been interested in cars, so once he got his mechanics certificate, Steve had recommended him for a job with the department.  

Chad Reese, a detective now, smiled as he walked by.  Noelle Landru, one of Chad's prep school classmates, had made a practice of trading favors, and when things didn't go her way, she murdered Chad's girlfriend and another student at the school.  Steve had never had any idea that Chad had even known who he was until almost a decade later when a familiar looking young man came and introduced himself saying he had never forgotten how it felt to know someone cared enough about his friends to find the person who had killed them and bring her to justice.  Chad had finished high school, got his degree in administration of justice, completed his academy training, and joined the LAPD.  Now he wanted to transfer to Steve's precinct and work for the man who had inspired him to become a cop.  At the time, Steve had been a captain less than a year, and he and his people were just moving into their new building after the quake of 2005.  Steve had been too busy for a long interview at the time, but he had had a feeling about the young man, and had told him, "Fine.  Find someone who looks like they could use some help, and lend a hand."

As he walked among his officers, inspecting the ranks, making eye contact with every individual, speaking with some of them, Steve felt a sense of warmth flood through him.  The things that had left his mark on this place were not in a couple of cardboard boxes, they were in the faces and lives and spirits of the men and women who surrounded him now.  They were in the lives he'd touched, the officers he'd trained, and the people he'd inspired; and even if he never again set foot inside this place, they would remain for a long time to come.  

Steve finished his inspection and returned to the front of the lobby where Tanis and Cheryl were waiting for him.  Tanis had a wide, flat velvet box in her hand and Cheryl was holding a plaque that had an engraved image of his shield on it with the dates of his service and the department motto.  Tanis opened the box and Steve smiled to see the typical gold watch on one side and his badge, which he had just minutes before left on his desk, on the other.

As the roomful of cops continued to stand at attention, Tanis said, "Deputy Chief Sloan, it is my pleasure to present you with this token of out appreciation for over fifty years of dedicated service.  You have always led by example and served as a role model for those around you.  You have been a paragon of integrity, respect, loyalty, and trust, and your presence will be sorely missed.  We all wish you well."

Steve stood for a moment, dumbfounded, until Cheryl murmured, "I think you should say something."

He took a breath and turned to face them all.  "Thank you, all of you, for being here today.  It has been an honor and a privilege to serve with you, and I am sure you will all carry on for many more years upholding justice for the people of our city.  Remember your oath, 'To serve and to protect.'  Watch your partner's back, and stand proud, knowing you are the ones who make this community a safer place to live."

A voice shouted, "Dismissed!" and the assembly slowly broke up.  After he had posed with Cheryl and Tanis for some pictures, many of the officers came forward to shake Steve's hand and share a word or two.  Finally, after several minutes, the place was back to business as usual, and Steve, Cheryl, and Tanis stood in the lobby talking.

"You two are very sneaky," he said.  "I can't believe you had somebody staking out my house for this."

Cheryl grinned and shrugged.  "It's the only way we could be sure to get you here.  I'm just glad you didn't tell them, 'Never complain . . . '"

Tanis joined her, "' . . . never explain . . . '"

Steve finished with them, "'. . . and never apologize.'  Actually, I considered it."

"You didn't!" Chery gasped, scandalized.

Steve started to nod, and then, unable to lie to her, shook his head and said, "No, I didn't."  He felt himself choking up again and said, "Ladies, thank you.  This meant more to me than you will ever know."

Cheryl stood on tiptoe and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  "Don't be a stranger."

Tanis shook his hand and squeezed his arm, "We'll miss you.  Take care."

Steve smiled and nodded at both of them, completely unable to speak.  Then he turned, picked up his two boxes, and left.


	35. The Struggle for Independence

**(Chapter 35.  A jewelry shop, the beach house, July 4, 2033.)**

Maribeth had awoken to realize with some surprise that, not only did she have the day off, but it was also Independence Day and she had planned nothing for the holiday.  While her husband was off packing up his office and saying goodbye to his colleagues, she had made some phone calls and prepared a menu.  Olivia, Keith, Ken, Sue, Alex, and Marilyn had all agreed to come help her prepare the food, and Amanda, Ron, their kids, grandkids, and guests; Jesse, Katie Lynne, and Lauren; and several dozen other people were going to come for a late lunch at about two o'clock and stay for the party until dark.  Then, they might all walk down the beach to the pier for the fireworks show at ten that evening.

When Steve arrived home, Maribeth presented him with a rather long shopping list before he could even take his boxes into the den and set them down.  Steve had made a joking comment about how if retirement were going to be like this, he'd have to find a part time job so he could rest once in a while.  Then he had gone off to change his clothes.  As he headed out of the house, he stepped into the den for a moment, got his badge out of the presentation case in which Tanis had placed it, and slipped it in his pocket.  He had another stop to make before he started on Maribeth's shopping list.

On his way to the butcher shop where Maribeth preferred to buy her steaks, Steve decided to make a detour to the custom jewelry store where he usually bought gifts for his wife.  Their wedding anniversary was in two and a half months, and he had an idea for something special for her.  He wasn't sure whether the place would be closed for the holiday or, like many other retailers, be having a Fourth of July sale, but since he was retired now and had all the time in the world, he figured he might as well see.

Steve pulled into the parking lot across the street from New Heirlooms and was pleased to see that they were open.  Now, if Marguerite was working, he would really be in luck.  She always managed to take his vague ideas and turn them into elegant creations that never failed to delight and impress Maribeth.  As he entered the store, he smiled and nodded at a college kid who looked up from the display case showing a large selection of watches.  Since it appeared that Marguerite was alone today, and she was already busy with a customer, he just smiled when he caught her eye and then proceeded to browse for a while.  

He started by looking at the jewelry sets.  Whenever they went out or attended a special event, Maribeth always liked to wear a nicely matched set of earrings, a bracelet, and a necklace.  She already had more jewelry than Steve thought she knew what to do with, but he also knew she would be wanting something special for Steven's wedding, which he was sure would be coming up within the next year.  Just to see what was available and what the price range was nowadays, he wandered down to the other end of the display case to look at the engagement rings.  As he did so, the college kid moved over to where he had been, and suddenly, Steve felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Discretely, glancing sideways at the young man and using the mirrors around the shop provided for customers to see how they looked wearing different items, he tried to figure out why the kid had set his radar off.  He had curly, longish, light brown hair and a few days' growth of stubble on his chin, and he wore a denim jacket with cut off sleeves and a gray, jersey knit hood.  His jeans were faded, and his shoes were passing from well-broken-in to almost-worn-out.  The grunge look, by whatever name it was now called, was coming back in, and Steve had noticed to his dismay that even Jesse's daughter, Lauren, had started wearing raggedy clothes when she wasn't working at Bob's.

So, why did this young man make him nervous?  He moved to the other side of the display case so he could keep a better eye on the kid as he looked at the engagement rings, and it hit him.  He couldn't have been much more than twenty years old.  If he was in college, he probably didn't have much money, certainly not enough to buy the sorts of watches and jewelry sets sold in New Heirlooms.  The only thing most young men his age might be looking for in a small boutique such as this would be an engagement ring, the one thing this particular young man seemed to have no interest in whatsoever.

As the kid reached out to pluck a pamphlet describing the shop's warranty program from its holder, another thing he didn't think would really interest a college student, the denim jacket opened slightly, and through the gap, Steve saw the flash of a gun grip.  It would be too obvious to cross the room and whisper to Marguerite to call 911, and Steve really didn't want to turn his back on the youth anyway.  Also, the young man hadn't done anything illegal yet, except maybe carrying a concealed weapon without a permit, and Steve, being retired now, couldn't even ask him to see that, not that he would, because if he were planning to rob the store, Steve would much rather catch him as he pulled the gun to ensure the charges would stick.  If a black and white came in with sirens blaring, someone was likely to get hurt before he had control of the situation.  Still, he needed backup.  _This is one hell of a dilemma!_

Taking his cell phone out of his jacket, he punched in the speed-dial code for his old office and hoped someone would pick up.  As he waited impatiently for an answer, his stomach decided to start burning again, and he sighed, knowing he'd have to go by the hospital soon or catch hell from his wife and everybody else under the sun.  _And Maribeth is gonna strangle me if I am late with her groceries.  _The suspect fidgeted nervously with the pamphlet in his hands as he turned to inspect a small case of cufflinks._  Like anyone's gonna believe he has a use for cufflinks!_

"Deputy Chief Slo . . . I-I mean Banks' office.  This is Officer Donovan speaking.  How may I direct your call?"

"Charles!" Steve said jovially into the phone, "I'm at New Heirlooms.  It's a little jewelry store in Malibu, and I have found something Cheryl has just _got_ to see.  Could you put her on, please?"

His cordial tone had not drawn the attention of the young thief, but Marguerite, who knew Maribeth well and considered her a friend, did give him a puzzled look.  When he caught her eye, he looked toward the suspect, frowned, mouthed the word 'trouble', and jerked his head toward the back room.  Marguerite didn't get it, and Steve's stomach burned.

"Chief?"

"Just put her on for me, Charles," Steve said, trying to sound slightly annoyed instead of desperate, "I don't have a whole lot of time."

"Steve?" Cheryl's puzzled voice came on the phone.  "What's up?"

"Cheryl, honey, you have got to come out to Malibu.  I have found the perfect thing to go with those bracelets you like so much."

It was quiet on her end for a moment or two, then, "You're in trouble already, aren't you?" she asked in disbelief, and Steve immediately heard anxious activity starting in the background.  "Did you even make it home, first?"

"Yeah," he said, not appreciating her assumption that he couldn't stay out of trouble long enough to get back to his house.  As he spoke, he tried to get subtly closer to the young man.  "Nothing too flashy, but if you can't make it today, I'll see if they can't hold it for you until you can come."  He stressed 'flashy' and prayed she'd take the hint.

Marguerite hadn't gotten his hint to her yet, and as he continued strolling through the shop, he again jerked his head in the direction of the back room.  She just frowned at him, confused, and went back to talking with her customer.

"You are in trouble, but you don't want lights and sirens, do you?  Something is about to go down, but it hasn't started yet."

"That's right, hon., New Heirlooms, in Malibu."

"All right, Donovan has an unmarked car on the way, ETA of five minutes.  Be careful, ok?"

"Sure thing, sweetheart, I'll be waiting for you." 

Suddenly, Marguerite realized that something bad was happening, and her eyes widened momentarily.  "You know," she said, taking hold of her customer's wrist and giving a small, urgent tug, "I think I might have just what you're looking for in back."  Thankfully, the customer followed without protest.

As he closed up his phone, Steve heard a gun being cocked, and the young man stepped away from him.  Pointing the weapon at Marguerite and her customer, he said, "Nobody's going anywhere."

As Maribeth boiled the pasta for her macaroni salad, she kept half an eye on the young woman chopping onions for her.  She found it interesting that Emily had volunteered for one of the most onerous kitchen tasks, and wondered if perhaps the onion-tears weren't hiding some real ones, too.  Em certainly seemed to be in a fragile state.

When she woke up that morning, Emily had been very stiff and in a lot of pain.  She had refused all of Steven's attempts to help her, insisting that she would be fine once she had moved around a bit and had a shower.  When she had realized that she had no clean clothes to change into, she had become very sullen and withdrawn, but she brightened immediately when Maribeth had offered to lend her some clothes.  Surprisingly, though there was a six-inch difference in height, and a considerable difference in their figures as well, the two women found they wore exactly the same dress size.

Maribeth favored v-necks because they drew the eye away from the figure and up to the face, so it had taken a while to find something that would cover the scars on Emily's chest.  They finally settled for a short-sleeved, pale blue, knit dress that buttoned up the front.  The buttons made it easy for Emily to put on, and the blue was a flattering color for her.  

Maribeth was not surprised that Emily was self-conscious about her appearance.  She was a lovely girl, and the scars that marred her body had to be an unpleasant thing to face every day.  So, it was with considerable pleasure that Maribeth watched as Em posed before the mirror in the borrowed dress.  Her eyes lit up with delight and she said, "I look so pretty!  I never wear clothes like this, but I just might start."

Despite three months of sedentary down time, Emily had maintained her lean, athletic frame.  Though she lacked the curves to fill out the long dress like Maribeth did, she was considerably taller, and the hem, which came nearly to Maribeth's ankles, stopped at mid-calf on Em.  She still looked drawn and pale, but that was improving almost by the hour now that the trial was over.  Twirling slowly, she gave a girlish laugh when the border-print skirt fluttered out around her.  The grass and flowers printed at the bottom seemed to wave in the breeze, and the butterflies flittered up the skirt to the drop-waisted bodice.  Looking over to Maribeth, then, she smiled shyly, blushed prettily, and said, "Thank you."

A moment later, Steven had come into the room, took one look at her, and said, "Em, you look beautiful."  He'd crossed the room, put his arms around her, and tried to kiss her, but by then, the smile had fallen away, and the shuttered look was back in place.  She stepped away from him, and said stiffly, "Thank you, Steven," then she turned to Maribeth and asked, "Can I help you in the kitchen?  I can't work fast, but I'll do what I can.  I need something to occupy me for a while."

Now, Em was chopping onions.  She had been silent for the past twenty minutes, except for the occasional sniffle brought on either by the fumes from the onions or from some emotions she was trying to conceal, Maribeth wasn't sure which.  She and Mark had silently agreed that, as long as she didn't appear to be straining herself, they would just leave her be until she decided to talk to them, but Steven wasn't so patient.

"Em, are you sure you're all right?" Steven fretted.

"Steven, I can chop onions just fine," Emily insisted, her knife whacking the cutting board rhythmically in time with her words.  "Even my weak heart can handle the strain.  You, on the other hand, are driving me nuts!"  Her voice slipped up an octave on the last few words, and it was clear that she was close to exploding.

Neither of them saw the half-amused, half-worried look that passed between Mark and Maribeth as they bickered.

"Ok, I'm sorry," Steven said, sounding a little hurt.  "You've just been so tired lately."

"That is because I have no stamina any more," she said as if talking to a slow child, the knife still going 'whack, whack, whack' as she diced a small purple onion.  "The reason I have no stamina is that I have been doing _nothing_ for the past three months.  The only way to rebuild my stamina is to do _something_!  Now, stop hovering, go clean up the grill like you said you were going to do half an hour ago, and _let me chop the damned onions in peace_!"

"All right, all right, I'm going.  You don't have to yell."

"Good," she snapped, and went back to chopping without another word.__

Once she had gotten over her embarrassment about falling asleep and being carried to bed like a child, Emily had quite enjoyed a late breakfast with Steven, Mark, and Maribeth.  The Chief had already gone into the station to collect the last of his things, come home, and been sent out again on some errands by the time she woke up, so she hadn't seen him yet, and she wasn't sure whether she was pleased by that notion or not.  Her respect for the man bordered on awe, and that, combined with her guilt about the problems she had caused him made her feel awkward and insignificant every time she was around the him lately.

She knew she couldn't avoid the Chief forever, especially if she was going to continue seeing Steven, _Although, if he doesn't back off . . . _but when she heard there was a party in the works, she decided not to brood about the prospect of having to talk with him and offered her help instead.  There were plenty of small jobs around the kitchen she could do while seated on a stool at the counter or in a chair at the table, and Maribeth appreciated the help.  Emily was glad for the company, and as long as Steven quit hovering, she could look forward to a pleasant day.

"Hey, kid!" Steve snapped, and the young man turned the gun on him just long enough for Marguerite to drag her customer into the safety of the back room.  Steve breathed a sigh of relief.

"Damn!" the robber swore.

Steve tried to suppress a chuckle.  He knew he was in a dangerous situation, and he was indeed nervous about it, but he couldn't help be amused by the young man's reaction.  The kid was so obviously a rank amateur that Steve supposed he should count himself lucky he hadn't been accidentally shot already.  That sobering thought sent the acid washing into his stomach, and he quickly adopted a serious mindset.

"Look, son," Steve began, trying to start a dialog, "you . . ."

"Don't call me that," the youth snapped.  

Steve sighed.  The kid was very jumpy, but it seemed more scared nervousness than mental instability, and he didn't seem the mean type at all, just desperate, which could make him more dangerous than he seemed, but Steve doubted it.  Perhaps the boy would respond to a concerned authority figure.  "Well, I'm not going to keep calling you 'kid' or 'hey, you', so why don't you tell me your name?  I'm Steve."

After a little hesitation, the kid shrugged his shoulders and said, "Andrew."

"Ok, Andrew.  You don't really want to do this, do you?" he said conversationally.

"How do you know what I want?" Andrew almost whined, and let the gun drop fractionally lower.

"I don't," Steve admitted, "but I know whatever you do want, it's not this.  You don't want to steal or frighten people and maybe hurt them, and I know you don't want to go to jail.  So, why don't you put the gun down, and we can talk about it?"

Andrew raised the gun again.  "I don't want to talk about it, old man!" he shouted angrily.  "I just want to get the good stuff and get out of here.  Now, put your hands down on that case and keep them where I can see them."  

Steve did as he was told, and while Andrew wandered around the shop, trying to decide what was 'the good stuff', he continued talking.  

"How old are you?  Twenty?  Twenty-one?"

"Nineteen," the boy said sullenly.  "I'll be twenty in September."

"Have you been in trouble before?"

Andrew shrugged his shoulders.  "Shoplifting when I was a kid.  Dad beat my behind for that.  And I got in a fight at school a couple years ago, but he let that slide because I was cornered."

"This is your first robbery, isn't it?" Steve asked, "It's your first real crime."

Andrew grew angry again for a moment, and Steve held his breath.  "What's it to you?"

"Oh, nothing really," Steve tried to act casual, "but I can tell you're new at this.  If you knew what you were doing, you'd have what you wanted and be gone already."

"Man, you sound like you think you know what you're talking about.  What are you, a cop?"

Steve couldn't hide a smile this time.  The situation was almost surreal.  "Not any more," he said, "but until this morning, I was, for over fifty years.  You don't strike me as the hardcore criminal type.  I think you're here because you're desperate."

Andrew had stopped pacing and stood staring at Steve for a minute.  "I don't believe you, old man.  Now, shut up!"

"Andrew, I'm going to reach into my pocket and take out my badge," Steve said in a level, soothing tone.  "They let me keep it as part of my retirement gift.  I want you to see it because I want you to believe me."  The whole time he was talking, Steve had been moving his hand toward his pocket.  When Andrew made no threatening gestures and said nothing to stop him, he reached inside and pulled out his badge.  Placing it on the top of the glass display case, he slid it toward Andrew so the young man could examine it more closely.

Andrew didn't bother to pick up the badge.  He just took one look at it and said, "Oh, man!  This sucks!"

"I was thinking the same thing, son," Steve said, "and the longer you hold that gun on me, the worse it's going to get for you.  Why don't you put the weapon down, and we'll see if we can't work together to come up with a solution to whatever problem brought you in here in the first place?  I'd like to help you if I can, but I can't do that as long as you're holding that gun."

"What do you care what happens to me?"

"I don't know," Steve admitted as he saw Davis and Reyes, the two officers Donovan had sent, approaching the doorway.  He locked eyes with Davis while Andrew continued inspecting the jewelry and said, "I just know I care, always have, that's why I became a cop.  The job isn't just about putting people in jail, Andrew.  It's about helping people in need.  Why don't you just stop this now, and let me see if I can help you?"  

"Man, I got no choice.  This is all my brother's fault!"

"What do you mean?  Did he force you into this?"  
  


"No, man, he's in the hospital now, 'cause his bookie had him beat up," Andrew said.  "My big brother, Richie, plays the ponies and loses more than he wins.  Now, if I don't come up with the money he owes, Tony Morton is going to torch our dad's shop."

Now that the young man confided in him, Steve felt he was close to resolving the situation.  If he could offer another way out, Andrew was likely to take it.  "Listen, Andrew, at the moment, you're facing charges of attempted armed robbery, reckless endangerment, and carrying a concealed weapon without a permit.  None of that's good, but if you cooperate now, it's not as bad as it sounds either, especially if you and your brother are willing to testify against Morton."

Steve had been speaking softly all along, keeping his tone gentle and soothing to try and calm the nervous young man and win his trust.  Now he hardened his tone slightly but didn't speak any louder, "The minute you break one of those cases or fire that weapon, it's a whole new ballgame.  Put the gun down now, and I can tell the judge you surrendered peacefully."

"What if I don't?"

"Then the two cops behind you are gonna take you out."

"I'm not gonna turn and look.  I'm not that stupid!"

"There's a mirror behind me," Steve said, knowing the layout of the shop well, "look in it, and you'll see them."

Andrew glanced up at the mirror as Steve suggested, and Steve could tell when he saw Davis and Reyes, because his shoulders slumped.  But he still held the gun.

"What about my dad?" Andrew pleaded.  "He just paid the mortgage on the shop this year.  He finally owns it.  It's finally his.  Can you protect him and his business?"

Steve softened his voice again.  "We'll do what we can, Andrew, but I have to tell you, as a father myself, I'd rather have my son do the right thing, even if it's hard, than have to visit him in jail.  And as a son, I wouldn't want to disappoint my father.  You're trying to help your brother, but this is the wrong thing to, and I think you know it."

Suddenly, tears rolled down Andrew's cheeks.  "I didn't know what else to do," he sobbed.  He lowered the gun, and then put it on the display case.

Steve breathed a sigh of relief as Davis and Reyes came in and handcuffed the youth.  Then he went to the back room and brought out Marguerite and her customer, assuring them that it was now safe.  By the time he had finished giving his statement and helping a very rattled Marguerite close up shop for the day, Cheryl had arrived.  So had a couple of crime reporters whom Steve knew got their stories by listening to the police band on their scanners.

Before Andrew was taken away, Steve let him use his cell phone to call his father.  He made Davis promise to shepherd the kid through the system, and gave Andrew's father his cell number so he could contact him for the arraignment.  He had every intention of honoring his agreement to help the young man.  If Andrew could convince the judge that he was only acting out of desperation, and if he agreed to testify against Tony Morton, with Steve's testimony that he had surrendered peacefully and a sympathetic DA, he could get just community service.  Normally, Steve didn't favor a slap on the wrist for violent offenders, but, despite his use of a gun, Andrew had been far from violent.

As the car pulled away with Andrew in the back, Steve felt Cheryl sidle up to him.  "You just can't help yourself, can you?" she teased.

Steve shrugged.  "I was just looking for a present for my wife."

"And you knew the kid was up to something," Cheryl recapped his statement,  "so you kept your eye on him, saw he had a gun, and talked him into surrendering, but only after distracting him long enough to let the two civilians get to the safety of the back room."

Steve shrugged again.  "After fifty years on the force, I guess some things are just automatic."

"Are you sure you don't want your old office back?" she asked teasingly.

"No, I don't.  I'm retired," he reminded her, "and when I consider the paperwork Davis and Reyes are going to be filling out this afternoon, I don't think I want to come back."

Cheryl smiled up at her him.  "You've still got it, you know?"

Steve smiled back and nodded.  "I do now, but thanks for telling me all along."

"Any time, old friend.  Any time."

"I'll kill him!" Maribeth yelled from the living room.  

Mark and Steven rushed in to see what had upset her, and Emily followed along behind, shuffling slightly.  

"What's wrong, Mom?" Steven asked.

"Your father," she fumed, pointing at the television screen, "I'm gonna kill him."

" . . . and former Deputy Chief Sloan distracted the gunman long enough for the customer and her to move to the relative safety of the back room, said Marguerite Furman, the owner of the shop.  By the time the police arrived, Sloan had talked him into surrendering peacefully.  Not a shot was fired in the incident, and no damage was done in the store.

"When we return, we'll tell you where to find the best fireworks shows this Fourth of July."

Maribeth gestured at the TV again and said, "He wasn't even wearing his Kevlar, the damned fool!  He could have been killed!"  She was absolutely livid.  "He's supposed to be retired."

Emily looked at Mark and Steven and tilted her head toward the door.  As the two men left, she said, "Maribeth, I suddenly need to sit down.  Would you help me to the couch?"

"Man, he's gonna get it from Maribeth when she finds out!" Keith laughed.  He, Olivia, Ken, and Sue were crowded in the jeep on the way to the beach house when the noon news came on.  The lead story was about how newly retired Deputy Chief of Police Steve Sloan had foiled an armed robbery attempt at a small jewelry shop in Malibu.

"You think so?" Kenny asked.  "It seems to me they understand each other pretty well."

"Oh, yeah," Keith said, "they understand each other, all right, and when she's through with him, Sloan is gonna understand that he'd better never pull a stunt like that again."

"Keith, don't you think that's going a little far?" Sue asked.  "To a lot of people, what he did was heroic.  I think she'll probably be proud of him."

"You didn't see how she was when he was sick with his ulcers, Sue," Keith told her.  "She wants to wrap him in tissue and keep him in a box."

"She knows Steve is a hero," Liv added.  "He has been for years.  Now she just wants him to be safe.  After what Em's been through the past few years, I can't say I blame her."

The conversation stopped then, and suddenly, Keith didn't find Steve's adventure quite so amusing.

"Thank you," Emily said as Maribeth helped her settle on the couch.  When the older woman rose to leave, Em grabbed her wrist and asked, "Why are you so mad at the Chief?"

"Wha . . . Why am I mad?"  Maribeth was surprised by the question.  "Emily, you heard what he did.  It was a dumb, dangerous thing to do.  He could have been killed."

"Maribeth, he stopped a robbery.  He kept two other people safe.  It was heroic," Emily said.  "Most people would be proud of him for that."

"Well, I'm not most people, and neither is he.  He's been pulling these stunts for over fifty years now!"  Maribeth was beside herself.  "I was hoping he would be safe now that he's retired."

"The fact that he's done it before doesn't make it any less heroic," Emily reminded her.

"It doesn't make it any less stupid, either!"

Emily sat quietly for a moment, then she said softly, "I guess that makes me stupid, too, then, doesn't it?"

Maribeth opened her mouth to fire back when suddenly she remembered why the young woman before her was still so very ill.  "Oh, Emily, no," she whispered, shocked by her realization.  Her eyes suddenly flooded with tears and they slipped down her cheeks.  "I just want him to be safe.  I . . . I just . . . want him . . . to be safe."

Emily smiled gently, holding the older woman's hand and stroking her arm.  "I know, Maribeth, but leaving the department isn't going to change the kind of man he is, and he is the kind of man who, in a crisis, is going to put others ahead of himself.  You accepted that when you married him.  You have to accept that now."

Maribeth took a deep breath, wiped her eyes, and nodded.  "I know that," she said.  "I just . . . I love him so much, and  . . . I'm scared to lose him."

"If he changes the way he lives, the way he acts, the way he treats people; if he becomes a safer person, a different person, won't you have lost him anyway?"

"I suppose I would."  The two women sat in silence for several minutes, until Maribeth finally sighed and said, "I guess it's not so bad.  It's not like it's his job anymore."

By the time Steve got home from his errands, the pink jeep in the driveway told him Keith, Liv, Ken, and Sue were at the house, and he supposed Alex and Marilyn had walked down the beach to get there.  He sat in his truck for a few minutes, wishing he could delay the inevitable until his guests had left, but since many of his purchases were perishable items like ice cream and steaks, he figured if he didn't go in soon, Maribeth would just chew his butt out twice.  Finally heaving a sigh of resignation, he climbed out of the truck, gathered his bags, and went in the house.

"I understand you had quite an adventure this morning," Maribeth said, and Steve felt the acid wash through his stomach.  _I should have told her about that before.  Now it's just one more thing to catch hell about._  He put the bags on the counter and prepared himself for a serious, embarrassing, and unpleasantly public tongue-lashing.  So, he felt nothing short of astounded when his wife came over to him, wrapped her arms around him, and said, "I'm very proud of you, and I'm so glad you're safe."

He was so stunned, it took him a moment to respond to the embrace, and when he did, a quick look around the room told him most of its occupants were as mystified by Maribeth's behavior as he was.  Only when Emily gave him a wink and a grin did he realize she had saved his bacon again.  He smiled his thanks, closed his eyes, and held his wife a minute longer, grateful to be safe in her arms.

Emily leaned back in the chaise lounge on the deck of the Sloan family's beach house and sighed contentedly.  When she had come out to sit in the sunshine an hour ago, she had pulled the hem of her borrowed dress up to mid thigh, and she had rolled the sleeves up above her shoulders to get more exposure to the sun.  She had never been one to sunbathe.  She didn't fancy risking skin cancer, and the idea of sitting and sweating in the sun while accomplishing nothing had never appealed to her, but she had decided that she could do with a little more color.  Maybe if she looked healthier, people would stop treating her like and invalid; and she would start feeling a little better.  The day had been warm and bright, and the coming evening promised to be balmy.  The party had delightful, and now, with most of the guests down at the pier waiting for the fireworks display, she and Steven could have a chance to steal a few private moments.  They had a lot to talk about.

The roar of the ocean and the calls of the gulls were a tonic, and as she took in the warmth of the late afternoon, it was wonderful to finally know she was free to sit and enjoy the world around her without the threat of prison bars closing her away from everything that she loved.  She took another deep breath of the tangy ocean air and closed her eyes against the molten red of the setting sun.  It may have been minutes or hours, but she sat there, relaxing in the waning light for a long while before Steven came to join her.

"Em?"

"I'm awake," she said dreamily.  

"Oh, good, I brought you some lemonade."

She smiled and said, "Mmmm, thanks."  Then she sat up, took the glass, and leaned back to sip it slowly.  It wasn't sugary, but just sweet enough that it wasn't too tart.

"Are you warm enough, Sweetheart?  It's going to cool off now that the sun's setting.  Do you need a blanket?"

"Oh, I'm fine," she said, and stretched and yawned.

"You're not too hot, are you?"

"No, Steven, I'm fine," she replied patiently.

"Do you have enough sun block on?  You don't want to get burned."

"Steven, I have been out here all afternoon without burning.  I am fine," her patience was wearing thin and her tone was stern now.

"Maybe I should set up the sun umbrella."

"Steven!"

"What?"

"You are too tall, too young, and way too damned hairy to be my mama, so stop acting like her," Emily said.  "I am fine, I am comfortable, and I was enjoying the sunset until you started clucking over me like an old mother hen getting ready to roost.  If you sit down and shut up now, I will be able to do so again, and you can soak up the last of the sun with me, but if you're going to continue fussing, just go away."

"I'm sorry, Em."  His embarrassed blush was made even redder by the evening rays of the sun.  "I know I'm hovering, but I just want to make sure you're ok."

Emily sat up on the chaise, put one foot on the floor either side of the chair, her long legs straddling it, and looked her boyfriend in the eye.  "I think we established the other day that I am most definitely not ok, didn't we?  I have a bad heart, and I am missing a kidney."  She pressed her lips together and tried hard to stare a hole through the deck for a minute before she looked at Steven again.  "That doesn't mean I'm some damned china doll, though.  I'm not going to break.  I know my limitations, and, since I have no desire to die young, I'm not going to push beyond them just to worry you.  I want you to hang out with me, Steven, not take care of me.  I can take care of myself again, now, ok?"

Steven looked into her beautiful gold-green eyes, and saw the sincerity there.  Emily had aged a lot in the past few months, but some of it had been good for her.  Maybe she hadn't aged, but matured.  She was more comfortable and at peace with herself than she had been since he met her.  Before the shooting, she would have had to be doing something every minute, and he never would have imagined her just 'soaking up the sun' as she was doing now.  She never used to like to be at rest, she'd always been driven, not in the way most high achievers are driven, but as if something terrible was running her down.  She was more patient and forgiving with others and herself, and though she'd never been a mean person, she was kinder now.  He smiled slightly, suddenly realizing that she was finally happy, and saddened that she had suffered so much to get there.

He pulled up another lounge chair.  "Ok, Em, I'll take your word for it."

They sat for some time, side by side, holding hands, each of them with a glass of lemonade in the other hand.  Finally, Emily sighed deeply and said, "You know, this is the first time since I was sent to prison as a kid that I have had absolutely nothing I had to do.  This time it feels nice."

Steven chuckled.  "I give it, oh, another two days."

Emily gave him a sideways glance through half-lidded eyes.  "Are you laughing at me?"

"Yes."

"Why?" she asked as she let her eyes drift closed again.

"Because you have to stay busy," Steven said, not even bothering to look at her.  The fading warmth of the sunshine had made them both lazy, and moving their lips to talk was just about as much effort as they could manage.  "You're one of those people who just can't be still for long.  You always have to be up to something."

"'No individual has any right to come into the world and go out of it without leaving behind him distinct and legitimate reasons for having passed through it,'" Emily quoted, the words rolling off her tongue almost as if they were her own.

"Hey, that's deep.  No fair, I thought we were supposed to be relaxing."

"That's George Washington Carver, and discussing the deep and important issues of life is relaxing to me."

"Ok, then, if you want to play that way," Steven said, still with his eyes closed, "in three weeks in March, you saved Moretti's life, uncovered nine Mafia puppets in the LAPD including Leigh Ann, Rossi, Merino, Velasquez, and the five guys that came after you at the safe house my dad set up for that sting.  You captured six Mafia thugs who were waiting to kill Moretti at a phony safe house, and helped Moretti get back in shape so he can live a longer, fuller life instead of dying young.  Then you reunited him with his long-lost son and grandson, and put one of the biggest mobsters in the country behind bars by safely delivering the key witness to his trial.  You also saved my dad's life twice, thank you very much, when he got sick at Mann's and then in court.  Today, you saved him from a serious butt chewing by my mother and effectively preempted the ruination of her Independence Day picnic.  I think you have about met your quota of 'distinct and legitimate reasons' for this lifetime."  Steven would have ticked everything off on his fingers as he spoke, but he was still holding hands with Em, and besides, he was just feeling too lazy.

"Yeah," Em agreed, "I suppose I have."

"Good.  Then I guess you can take it easy for the rest of your life."

"I don't think so," she said.  "I'm still here and as they say, 'idle hands are the devil's workshop'"

Steven laughed.  "Ok, that one's a little more familiar.  Is that the Bible or something?"

"Or something, I suppose," Emily said.  "My mama would know if it was the Bible, but the fact is, if I am not busy, I'll get bored."

"Catch up on your reading."

"I already have," Emily said.  "Three months in the hospital gives one plenty of time to read."

"Then arrange flowers.  That would be a nice hobby."

"Be not simply good, be good for something," she countered.

"Henry David Thoreau," Steven said with a laugh.  "You've got a quote for everything, don't you?"

"Yeah.  I just figure, if I am still here, I should be contributing something."

"Then learn to paint.  A lot of people like art and you could donate the proceeds to one of your foundations."

"I can already paint.  It's not a challenge any more."

"Draw."

"If I can paint, I can do that, too."

"Take up playing the bassoon."

"I already know how."

"Damn, Em, is there anything you've never learned to do?"

"Well, I can't make a decent pie crust to save my life or make biscuits that are any better than paperweights."

"Well, then, learn to bake."

"Why?"

"Because I plan to marry you some day, and it would be nice to have a wife who knows how to make a decent pie crust."

The young lovers laid on their side-by-side lounge chairs a while longer, enjoying the beautiful summer's sunset as the sky faded from pulsing orange to blood red to pale pink to silver to a blue that was somehow darker than black.  Emily opened her eyes and looked at the sky.  There weren't as many stars visible here in LA, and it was one of the things she missed most about Pennsylvania, but the sky was such a pretty color at night that it almost made up for the missing constellations.  

Sighing, Emily said, "Life's too short to make pastry."  There was another quiet moment, then she giggled a little and added, "But, I wouldn't mind making whoopie."

Steven was confused for a moment because it had been so long since either of them had spoken that his thoughts had wandered a long way from the piecrust comment.  Finally recalling their conversation, he laughed with her and said, "I think we could arrange that."

In the closing darkness, he missed the nervous look Emily shot him, but he heard the anxiety in her voice when she said, "I'm not sure I'm up for that yet."

"Then how about a walk on the beach instead?"

"I . . .I don't know, Steven.  I'd hate to get out there and not be able to make it back."

"We'll walk slowly, and we won't go far," he reassured her.  "I'll take Dad's camp-chair-in-a-bag in case you need a rest, and if you get too tired, I'll carry you back."

"Making me an offer I can't refuse, are you?" she laughed.  "All right, I'll see if I can go as far as the water's edge."  It wasn't a long distance, but it was about as much as she could walk in one go.  She figured she'd rest there and then they'd walk back.

Steven offered her his hand, and she used the leverage to help pull herself up.  Then, arm in arm, they made their way slowly down the steps and across the yard.

"You know," she said, "yards are different here from how they are back home."

Steven laughed, caught off guard by the peculiar comment.  "Ok, I'll take your word on that."

"I mean it," Emily insisted.  "Seriously, the ground here is all sandy, for starters."

"Well, Em, this _is_ a _beach_ house."

"I know," she said, "but I can feel it sliding under my feet all the time.  Back home, the grass grows thick and dense in rich, dark topsoil.  Below that, there's often heavy clay, usually terracotta-colored, or the color of tea with milk; and then, there's bedrock.  It's solid," she told him.  "It's firm, and the mountains stand eternal.  Here, it's always shifting, always moving, always in transition."

"You're homesick, aren't you," Steven asked kindly as he paused to open the gate so they could step out onto the beach.

"Maybe a little," Em admitted.  By now, the moon had risen and it silvered the peaks of the waves as they rolled in toward shore and left the troughs between them in deep shadows.

Gradually, they approached the water's edge, Steven being careful to let Emily set the pace.  When they were close enough to feel the spray and hear the water boiling as it rushed up on the sand and hissing as is ebbed away, they stopped.  Steven turned to face Emily, and reluctantly, she turned to look back at him.  Her coppery hair was a dark gold in the silvery moonlight, her freckled skin shining like speckled ivory.  He gasped when a single tear, sparkling like a diamond, slipped down her cheek.

Reaching up to caress it away, he asked, "What is it Em?  Why are you crying?"

"Oh, Steven," she gasped, "there were days when I thought I might never see you again.  Then there were days when I thought you'd never want to see me, you'd never forgive me for what I did to your dad, for the way I betrayed him, for the way I betrayed your trust, for what happened to your Uncle Ron.  I can't believe you want me here.  What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Shh," he soothed her and took her in his arms.  "You didn't do anything wrong, Em.  You were just doing a job.  You didn't betray me, or Dad, and what happened to Ron wasn't your fault.  They know that, and so do I."

He held her a while longer, softly rubbing her back as she wept against his chest.  Then, when she calmed down, he leaned forward to give her a long, gentle kiss on the lips.  As if the moment had been planned just for them, the fireworks show started just as their lips met with a sparkling burst of red, white, and blue.

When they pulled apart, Emily smiled and said, "That was some kiss."

Steven shrugged.  "What can I say?  Some guys got it, some guys don't.  It just so happens I do."

"Oh, and he's modest, too," Em joked.

"Don't tease," Steven said affecting a hurt tone.  "I'm very proud of my humility."

"You're a nut," Emily told him, but by the sound of her voice, he could tell that she didn't mind at all.  He leaned forward for another kiss, and this time, three roman candles shot into the air and exploded in the colors of the American flag.  He could feel Emily shaking, and when he drew away, he heard her laughing.  "I'm sorry," she said, "It's just too much like a movie."

Steven just smiled at her and shook his head.  After a moment he asked, "Would you like to sit in the chair and dip your toes in the ocean for a little bit before we go back to the house?"

He could still hear the laughter in her voice, and still, some of the tears from earlier, when she replied, "That might be nice."

Giggling when he tickled her feet, she balanced against him, lightly resting her hand on his broad, strong back as he stooped to remove her sandals for her.  Then, holding on to both of her hands, helped her walk out into the tide until the water splashed up to her ankles and almost touched the hem of her dress.

"It tickles!" she yelped, laughing helplessly as the water washed sand over and around her feet, and the fireworks boomed as a backdrop to their private little interlude on the beach.

"I know, but it feels nice, too, doesn't it?"

"Yeah, it does," she admitted shyly, "and it's warm."  The last bit was said with undisguised wonder, then, as she settled into the chair Steven had unfolded for her, she added, "You know, this is the first time I have ever put my feet in the sea."

"Are you kidding me?"  Steven clearly didn't believe her.

"No," she said, shaking her head as she settled into the chair and lifted her skirt high enough to keep it dry, "in fact, the only other time I have ever been on the beach was when I warned your dad about Leigh Ann."

"Well, then," Steven said, "I'm glad to be here for your very first dip in the ocean."

She sat quietly for a minute or two, listening to the tide, focusing on the sound of the water, letting it drown out the noises of the Independence Day celebration at the pier, and she told him, "I love that sound, the _rushhhh_ as the water rolls up onto the beach and the _hissss_ as it slips away again.  It's like the planet is alive, and it's breathing."

"Mmm-hmmm," he replied somewhat absently, and then he came around to kneel on the wet sand at her feet.

She laughed as the surf rushed up around him, soaking him to the hips.  "It looks like I'm not the only dip in the ocean tonight," she joked and propped her feet on his muscular thighs.

"Steven?" she queried when he didn't respond to her teasing, "Is there something wrong?"

"No, Em, nothing's wrong."  He took her left hand in his and she felt a cool metal band slide around the third finger.  "I love you, Em, and I want you to marry me."  A huge starburst of blue and gold exploded behind him as he spoke.

"Oh, Steven."

He would have been prepared for her to gasp in surprise or whoop with delight.  Tears of joy would not have surprised him, but he certainly wasn't expecting a tone of quiet sadness.

"Em?"

She took the ring off, placed it in the palm of his hand, and gently closed his fingers over it.  Holding his hand shut with both of hers, she said, "I'm going back home with Mama and Daddy for a while.  We leave the day after tomorrow."

"Why?" he gasped, closing his free hand over both of hers.  There was so much more he wanted to say, but the one word was all he could manage.

"I have been through so much in the past few years, Steven.  First, it was BioGen, not just what it did to me, though I was sick for a long time, but what it did to everyone.  I don't know a single person who didn't lose somebody they loved.  For a while, there weren't enough healthy people to bury the dead.

"Then I got out of a bad marriage, but it was a bad divorce, too, and I ended up moving three thousand miles from home to get away from my ex."

"Em, if he hurt you . . . "

She heard the threat in his tone, and stopped him before he could say the words.  "Oh, no, Steven!  He knew if he ever hit me once he wouldn't live long enough to hit me again."  The whistle and bang of several quickly rising plumes of light seemed to punctuate her words.  "I've never played that game.  We just made each other so miserable.  He hated my being a cop, even though he was one, too.  He couldn't stand the worry, and he tried to smother me.  It was all well-intentioned, but it drove me nuts, so, naturally I took the most dangerous assignments I could get just to piss him off.  After the divorce, I couldn't stand to see him at work every day.  I couldn't bear to be reminded of what a failure I was as a wife.

"Then I got into this whole mess with Moretti, and the trial . . . " She trailed off, not sure what to say next, and the crackle of fireworks filled her pause.  Eventually, she continued.  "Now, I'm at a loose end.  I can't be a cop anymore, but I don't know what I want to do with the rest of my life.  I don't know who I am anymore, Steven.  The last time I remember being Emily--just Emily and not, Detective Baer, the investigator who shut down BioGen, or Sergent Baer, Deputy Baer's ex-wife, or Lieutenant Stephens, the cop who kidnapped Giancarlo Moretti and ended up taking four bullets from a gun smuggled into the courthouse--I was nineteen years old and living with Mama and Daddy.  I'd just told them I wanted to be a cop, and I was going to start working on my degree in Administration of Justice, and my mama said she was proud of me."

In the dark, Steven could not see the tears that filled her eyes, but he could hear them in her voice.

"I lost myself somewhere between here and there, Steven, and I have to go back and find me again, or it won't be long before I have nothing left to give you."

All the while Emily had been talking they had sat with their hands joined around the ring.  Now Steven pressed his face against their intertwined fingers, and after a moment, she could feel his warm tears.

"How long will you be gone?" he asked, looking up.  The moonlight made his face a luminous white, and his blue eyes shone silver.  An explosion to the south cast the right side of his face in a blue light.

"Well, I have to be back before the snow flies," she said matter-of-factly.  "The cold will kill me."

"So, when?  Late September?"

"At the earliest, or as late as after Thanksgiving, depending on El Niño and how much hovering Mama does."

"I'll be waiting," he promised.

"Don't say that yet," she pleaded.  "You have a lot to think about, too, you know."

"I love you, Em, and I want to marry you.  That's all I need to know."

"It takes more than love to make a marriage work, Steven," she advised him.  "Trust me, I know.  I loved Ian like he was the last man on earth."

They sat in silence for a few moments, and when he didn't argue any more, she said, "I'm a very sick woman now, Steven."

"You'll get better, Em."

"I'll get stronger," she gently corrected him, "but what's wrong with me won't heal any more.  Do you want to be a father?"

He shrugged.

"That's something you need to think about," she said.  "My body probably won't take the strain of carrying a child.  Even if I could survive a pregnancy, since the BioGen virus messed me up to the point where stem cell therapy won't work, I have to wonder if I would even be able to conceive a viable embryo."

"So we'll adopt or contract a surrogate."

"That's easy to say right now because you want me to stay.  It could be very hard to commit to when it comes time to start a family.

"There's a good chance I'm going to die a lot younger than you, too.  If my heart or kidney doesn't go, the BioGen virus still might get me.  We have no idea what the long-term effects of infection are.  How are you going to feel thirty or forty years from now when you have to start dating again or face being alone for the rest of your life?"

"My granddad's been a widower for a very long time."

"I know," she agreed, "and if you ask him if he still misses your grandma, he'll probably tell you 'everyday'."

"But I love you, Em," he pleaded.

"I love you, too, so I'm not going to tell you yes or no right now," she said gently.  "We both have things to sort out.  Maybe, by the time I get back, we'll know what we want and what we need."

Steven disentangled their fingers and tried to slip the ring back on her hand, but she pulled away.

"Please, Em, keep it until you get back," he begged.

"No, Steven," she said, gently but firmly, "I'm not going to let you convince yourself that I have made some kind of commitment to you.  What I will promise now is that . . . I will think about it while I am gone."

They sat in silence together under the moonlight at the edge of the tide for a long time.  The fireworks exploded in the night sky, but they were both too sad to take any pleasure in the display.  Finally, as the finale began, Emily said, "Steven, I'm getting cold now, and I need your help to get back to the house."

Without a word, he put her sandals back on her feet and helped her stand.  Then he folded the chair and walked her up the beach and across the yard, back the way they had come.  After the rest of the party guests had come back for their vehicles, Ken and Sue had called a cab to take them back to Brentwood because they were flying back to Pennsylvania the next morning, and Alex and Marilyn had walked home, Steven and Em spent some time with her parents and his.  When Steve made a comment about Steven moving back into the Brentwood house with Emily, his son told him quite bluntly, "That won't be happening, Dad.  She's going back East."

Steve looked from Emily to his son and said, "I thought you were going to propose."

"I did."

Then, Liv and Keith decided it was time to go back to Brentwood, the young lovers kissed goodnight, but neither of them could quite manage to say another word to the other.

As Keith helped his daughter out to the car, Steven headed downstairs to his grandfather's apartment and Liv and Steve looked on sadly.  Maribeth had already said her goodbyes quite some time ago and headed for bed because she wasn't officially retired until the coming Monday and she had to work in the morning.

"I knew the day she walked into my office that she was just like her mother," Steve said somewhat bitterly.  "I kind of wish I was wrong about that."

"Steve, that's hardly fair," Olivia said as Keith came back into the house.

"She forgot her dirty clothes," he said.  "They're on the bed in the guestroom.  Mind if I go get them?"

Steve stood aside and let him pass.  As Keith walked down the hall to the guest room, Steve said, "It's kind of hard to be fair when your child is the one who is hurting."

"Do you really think she isn't hurting, too?" Liv asked incredulously.  "I can tell you from experience, this is killing her."

"Oh, yeah, just like it tore you up thirty years ago, huh?"

"It did, Steve.  It broke my heart, but do you really think I did the wrong thing?"

Steve was silent a minute, fighting down the anger and hurt he was feeling on behalf of his son.  Finally, he looked at her and said, "No, Liv, of course I don't.  I think what you did was best for both of us, but what she did to him, three months letting him believe she loves him, and then she puts him off like that, it's just not fair."

"And what about what he did to her?" Keith asked, coming back to join them.  "Is that fair?"

"What did he do to her?" Steve asked with a challenge in his voice.

Keith was livid when he replied, but he kept his voice low so as not to disturb the rest of the household.  "It's been barely a day since the trial, she's just got her life back, and Steven is asking her to commit to spending the rest of it with him.  He asked our permission to propose earlier, and we told him that would be fine, but we asked him to wait a few weeks.  We'd have warned him Em was going back East with us, but she made us promise to let her tell him.  I guess, between the sunset and the fireworks, the evening just seemed made for romance, and your son got a little carried away.  He put his desires ahead of her needs.

"Now, I could go ahead and be angry about that . . . "  
  


"But you won't, will you?" Steve said sarcastically.

"Actually, I'm pretty pissed off about what he did . . . "

"Keith!" Olivia sounded shocked.

"Olivia, stop it.  I'm not going to stand here and let him take an attitude about Emily's actions while he denies that that his own kid was in the wrong."

Olivia rolled her eyes and headed to the car to keep Emily company, determined not to get caught in the middle of the two angry fathers hashing out their differences.

Keith turned to Steve and said, "If he were my son, I don't care how grown he thinks he is, I would probably take him over my knee for what he did and teach him a lesson about how to treat people.  

"Steven is pushing Em too hard and too fast, and she doesn't need that kind of pressure now," Keith insisted.  "She can't handle it.  He was wrong to propose so soon, but what's done is done, and if our kids are ever going to be happy together, they're going to need us to be supportive and compassionate while they try to find their way.  

"So, on the ride back to her place, when Em starts to cry, I'll tell her it will be all right.  When she says she loves him, I'll tell her I know, and not mention what an inconsiderate jerk he was to her tonight."

Steve stiffened at the insult directed toward his son, but Keith just continued talking.

"When she tells me how sweet and kind and considerate he is, I'll agree with her, and say nothing about how he disregarded her mother's and my request to give her a little more time to get her life back together before he pressured her to make him a permanent part of it.

"See, Steve, I realize that the selfish jerk he was tonight was a momentary lapse, and the compassionate, caring man we have seen the past three months during her recovery is the real Steven Sloan.  So, even though I want to deck the boy right now, I'm gonna have to let it go, for both their sakes, and whatever you feel about Emily, you need to do the same."

Steve stood for a moment, looking as if he was about to explode, then a change came over him, and he smiled regretfully.  "Do you remember on your wedding day when you told me I was a better man than you for standing aside and letting you marry Liv?"

"Yeah."

"Remember that I laughed, and you asked me what was funny?"

"Yeah, you told me we should invite you back for our twenty-fifth anniversary and you would tell me.  We never did invite you, so tell me now, what was so funny?"

"I had already figured out that you were the better man," Steve explained.  "I knew it when you and Liv sat there with Ted as he lay dying, and you told him forgave him.  I could tell you meant it, and I knew I could never be like that.  What Steven did was wrong, and I will talk to him about that when he's not so upset, but Keith, if our positions were reversed, I don't think I could forgive him like you are prepared to do.  I'm just not that . . . decent."

Keith had the good grace to blush at the praise, and, looking modestly at the floor, he shrugged and said, "That doesn't make me better, beach bum.  That just makes us different.  I saw how upset Em was the day she came home from the hospital.  I don't know what you said to her in the garden, but she really was all right when the two of you came back.  I have a hunch you forgave her for all the embarrassment and trouble she caused you, and you must have said something else to calm her fears.  I couldn't have done that, because I was just as scared as she was."

The two men stood there in awkward silence for a few minutes, and then Keith said, "Well, it's getting late, and I should probably get my ladies home.  We all have a lot of packing to do tomorrow."

"Yeah," Steve agreed, "and I know Maribeth is gonna want me to clean up from the party tomorrow while she is at work.  That'll take a while, so I'll have to get up early."  Steve stepped into the house, and Keith went down the steps.  As Keith reached the driveway, Steve called out, "And Keith?"

"Yeah?"

"When Em's ready to come back to LA, tell her to stop by.  We'd be glad to see her anytime."

Keith smiled at the man who had become his unlikely friend.  "I'll do that, and thanks.  You have a good night."

"You, too," Steve said, and shut the door.


	36. Anniversary

**(Chapter 36.  The beach house, a fine restaurant in LA, somewhere else--it's a surprise!  August 23, 2033.)**

Maribeth sighed happily and leaned back in her chair enjoying the sun and the ocean breeze, her thoughts of the previous day making it impossible to wipe the smile from her face.  It had been a lovely day, only surpassed by the evening that had followed.  Steve had obviously spent a lot of time planning everything, so she simply couldn't be upset with him for letting her believe he had forgotten their thirtieth wedding anniversary.  

The surprises had started early.  Steve had left before dawn, ostensibly to go fishing with his dad.  She had no idea where he'd been all day, but people began showing up periodically from about ten o'clock on.  First, it was breakfast, though not in bed.  Instead, she had been awakened by the smell of warm blueberry muffins and hot coffee.  Curious to see who might be cooking since her husband and father-in-law had already left and her son had moved back to Brentwood weeks ago to mind Emily's house for her, hoping desperately that she wouldn't kick him out when she returned, Maribeth slipped into her comfortable old housecoat and stumbled out to the kitchen. 

"Oh, Mrs. Sloan, good morning."

"Agnes?"  Maribeth was rather shocked to find her neighbor's cook and housekeeper in the kitchen buttering toast.

"Mr. Sloan told me you would be getting up about now.  Come sit and have your breakfast."

"Agnes?"

"Your egg is almost ready, ma'am, and the muffins will be done soon.  Would you prefer orange or cranberry juice?"

"Agnes?"  Maribeth had yet to move from doorway.

"Ma'am?"  Agnes couldn't hide her smile.  Former Deputy Chief Sloan was a lovely man, and his wife was one of the nicest women in the neighborhood, and it delighted Agnes no end to help with this little anniversary surprise.

"Agnes, what are you doing here?"

"Mr. Sloan asked me to tell you that he didn't forget what today was.  He has engaged my services for the day to take care of all of the ordinary tasks so that you can relax and enjoy the surprises that come your way.  He will see you this evening."

"Oh."

"Ma'am?"

"Agnes?"

"Would you prefer orange juice or cranberry juice?"

After fetching the morning paper and serving Maribeth a breakfast of a boiled egg, toast, and a warm, buttered blueberry muffin as big as her fist, all of it with abundant coffee, Agnes had gone off to draw a bath.  At first, Maribeth was uncomfortable with the idea of having a stranger poking about in her bathroom, but when she slipped into a hot bath full of rose-scented bubbles scattered with actual rose petals, she decided she could get used to having a housekeeper.  Just as she was getting relaxed in the warm water, there was a knock at the bathroom door.  Not wanting to get out of the tub yet, and deciding there were more than enough of the lush, foamy bubbles to protect her modesty, Maribeth called out, "Come in."

Agnes entered, and in a most businesslike fashion said, "Your robe is hanging on the back of the door, and I have placed your clothes on the foot of the bed.  Your next surprise will be here in about an hour, but there is no need to rush.  Enjoy your bath."

"Thank you, Agnes.  I will."

As she soaked in the tub, Maribeth wondered what her next surprise would be.  A hairdresser to give her a makeover?  A manicure?  A massage?  She frowned.  Knowing Steve, he had hired someone to come in and shampoo the carpets.  Her frown deepened.  She knew she was being unfair.  Her husband had given her some wonderfully romantic gifts in the past, and he had only made the occasional blunder.  Whatever it was, she would love it because he had given it to her with love.

When the water had cooled, she drained the tub and rinsed herself under the shower.  Then she dried off and took down the robe Agnes had left for her.

"This is new," she said to herself.  The robe was a marine blue silk kimono with the image of a crane standing among some reeds at the water's edge embroidered on the back.  The fabric was incredibly soft against her skin, almost as if it wasn't there.  When she went out to the bedroom, she found a pair of silk pajamas with short pants in another shade of blue that beautifully complimented the robe.  Agnes had made the bed and cleaned the room while she was bathing, and everything had a restful, soothing sense of order about it.

She had just slipped the robe back on over her pajamas when the doorbell rang.  As she opened the bedroom door to step out into the hall and go answer the door, she heard Agnes' voice saying, "You can just come straight through and set up in the living room. Mrs. Sloan is probably almost done with her bath by now."

Maribeth couldn't help but feel a little disappointed as she slipped back into the bedroom.  _He really did hire someone to clean the carpets.  I shouldn't have nagged so much!_

There was a rap at the bedroom door, then, and when she told Agnes to come in, the woman stepped in and said, "Ma'am, if you would come to the living room, your next surprise is ready."

"Thank you, Agnes," Maribeth said.  "I will be there in a minute."

"Yes, ma'am.  I will let the gentleman and young ladies know you will be right along."

As she listened to the sounds of equipment being set up, Maribeth toweled her hair dry and combed it, and then slipped on a pair of silk slippers she had found at the foot of the bed, obviously dyed to match her pajamas.  Heading out to the living room, she stuck a smile on her face, determined to be as happy about clean carpets as she would have been about a diamond necklace and earrings.

When she finally came into the living room, Maribeth was astounded to find that a sheet of heavy duty plastic had been put down to protect the carpets.  On top of the plastic sat a salon chair, hair dryer, portable sink, manicurist's table, and a foot spa in place of her normal living room furniture, which had all been pushed to the walls.  There were also a young man and two young women waiting for her, all of them wearing the distinctive jade green smocks of the exclusive Beaux Cheveux et Peau Mobile Salon and Day Spa.  She must have stood staring for a full minute before one of the young women approached her, and taking her gently by the arm, led her to the chair, saying, "My name is Amy.  My colleagues are Paul and Aileen.  Happy anniversary."

For the next two hours, as Agnes busied herself around the house, Maribeth was spoiled like a rising young starlet on a movie set.  While Amy and Aileen gave her a manicure and a pedicure, Paul worked on her face and hair.  First, he waxed her eyebrows.  Maribeth was initially a little leery, because she knew waxing could be quite painful, but Paul reassured her, explaining that, "Beaux Cheveux et Peau has developed an exclusive wax formula that includes a topical anesthetic.  You won't feel a thing."

"Yeah.  That's what I used to tell my patients, too," she said doubtfully, but to her surprise, he was right.  

After taking care of her eyebrows, Paul covered her with a salon cape and then smeared a peachy smelling masque over her face and neck.  It had a heady fragrance, like a summer orchard, and Maribeth began to quickly relax.  Paul tipped the chair back and washed her hair with a tropical scented shampoo that produced enormous amounts of thick lather.  The gentle massaging sensation made her just about dissolve into a puddle of very mellow goo.  While Paul was working, Maribeth could feel the masque on her face drying and tightening.  It was a pleasant, relaxing sensation.  _Who are you kidding, Mar, the masque is the smallest thing.  You are being spoiled rotten and loving every minute of it!_

As Paul rinsed the shampoo from her hair, he also washed the masque from her face, being careful not to drown her as he did so.  Then he wrapped a towel around her hair and sat her up so he could dry it.  Finally draping the towel around her shoulders, he looked at her reflection in the mirror and said, "All right, Mrs. Sloan, your husband has told me he wants your hair left long, but put up for the evening.  Other than that, I have no instructions.  What should I do with your hair?"

Eyes widening, Maribeth said, "Oh, goodness, I don't know."  She really did know just what she wanted to do, but she didn't know if she was brave enough to try it.  Though Steve had dyed his hair for years until she had convinced him that he would be a silver fox if he just let it go gray, he had never wanted her to change the color of her blonde tresses.  Now, though, her blonde was going dull, and her hair had no luster or shine to it anymore.  "W-would you color it?"

Paul smiled charmingly.  "If you want me to."

"I-I don't know."

"Have you ever colored your hair before, Mrs. Sloan?"

"No, never.  When I was younger, my husband told me he wanted me to stay blonde, and as I got older, I guess . . . I just wasn't brave enough to try anything different."

Paul nodded, "Ok, how about this.  You let me try something, and if you don't like it, we can dye it back to the color it is now.  How does that sound?"

"You can dye it back?"

"Oh, sure.  No problem.  With the hair colors we have now, you could have a new shade every day if you wanted to."

"O-Ok, then.  Sure.  Go ahead," Maribeth said, feeling bolder with every word.

"And for the cut, I think long layers would be nice.  It will be less hair, so it will dry quicker, but it will still be just as long, and you can style it different ways."

Maribeth nodded.  "Sounds good."  

Then, to her dismay, Paul pushed the mirror away from in front of her, letting her see the ocean through the windows, and said, "Relax and enjoy the view, Mrs. Sloan, and let me surprise you."

As Paul did her hair, Amy and Aileen painted her toes, gave her long, manicured nails, and waxed her legs up to the hem of the short pants of her pajamas.  By one o'clock, she was feeling like a very nervous glamour girl, waiting for Paul to give her permission to look at herself in the mirror.

"All right, Mrs. Sloan, you can open your eyes."

For a moment, Maribeth just stared.  Then she smiled.  Then, much to her embarrassment, she giggled like a schoolgirl.  She was still blonde, but what a blonde!  The shades and highlights in her hair ran from pure, spun gold to honey blonde to new oak.  Her curls, for thanks to Paul's efforts, her hair was very curly, were piled high on her head and they seemed to absorb the light, enhance it, and shine it back out.

"Oh, my," she gasped.  "Paul, thank you.  I look . . . I look just beautiful.  And ladies, the nails, my hands and feet.  Oh, my."

"Mrs. Sloan," Paul flattered her, "you were just beautiful when we came in here.  The magic only works on beautiful people.  For all the rest," he shrugged, "it's just cosmetic."

Maribeth blushed and giggled again, and as the three young beauticians began to pack up, Agnes came in to say, "Lunch is served, ma'am."

Not knowing what else to do, Maribeth followed the housekeeper out to the dining room.  As she sat down to the first course, a crisp Caesar salad, she suddenly realized she had forgotten something.  As she started to rise, Agnes looked at her and asked, "Is there something wrong, ma'am?"

"A tip, Agnes.  I forgot to tip them."

Agnes smiled.  "Not to worry, ma'am.  Mr. Sloan has already seen to that.  He left me the money and instructions to take care of all your visitors today."

"All?"

"Yes, ma'am.  There is a makeup artist coming at two, and a clothing designer and seamstress at three."

"You can't be serious."  To say Maribeth was shocked was an understatement.  She had never imagined her husband would dream up something so elaborate and yet there was more to come.  And _so_ much pampering. _ Hey, I could get used to it._  She smiled, and sat back down to enjoy her salad.  There was no telling how long this would last, so she might as well relax and enjoy the ride.

By six thirty, Maribeth had been fitted for a new wardrobe, to be delivered later that week, and the makeup artist had helped her select a cosmetic palette that complemented her new hair color and clothes.  To her surprise and now genuine delight, the carpet cleaners had come at four, a whole crew of them, and had cleaned all the rugs in the house, saving the bedroom for last, so that she and the designer and seamstress could work undisturbed. 

As Agnes was leaving, she told Maribeth, "The car will be here for you at seven, Mrs. Sloan."

"Car?"

"Yes, ma'am.  To take you to your husband."

"Oh."

So, for half an hour, Maribeth had waited, feeling as nervous as a schoolgirl about to go on her first real date.  She smiled, wondering if that was just the effect her husband had hoped for when he had chosen the little black dress the seamstress had fitted her for.  She was wearing it now, with a black lace wrap, and my, what a little black dress it was!  Sleeveless, with a plunging v-neck and a short skirt, it had glittery black beaded embroidery all around the neck and in a fancy pattern that worked its way up from the hem.  The cut and design of the dress slimmed her hips and enhanced her waist, and the bra the designer had given her to wear under it gave her lift and cleavage like she hadn't had since before Steven was born.  She could only guess that Steve had told the designer what her main complaints were about her figure and asked the woman to help him pick something that would minimize those problem areas.  The black satin bag and shoes she wore had the same embroidery as the dress, and someone from New Heirlooms had delivered a pair of gold heart earrings and a gold bracelet of little interconnected hearts, with a small diamond at the point of each heart.  She was disappointed that there was no necklace to complete the set, but then she felt ashamed for feeling let down about a necklace when she had already been spoiled all day long.

She was just posing in front of the cheval mirror in the bedroom, giggling at herself and feeling like she was seventeen again, when there was a knock at the door.  When she answered it, she found a chauffeur standing there in snappy gray uniform.

"Mrs. Sloan?"

"Yes, that's me," she said, wide-eyed and peeking around him for a look at the shiny black limousine waiting in her driveway.

"May I escort you to the car, ma'am?"

"Oh, yes, yes, just a minute."  She slipped back the hall and got Steve's anniversary present and dropped it into her little black bag.

Steve had spent the day with his dad.  First, they had gone to a men's wear boutique that belonged to one of Mark's former patients.  Steve had gotten a good deal on an expensive designer suit and shoes, the sort of thing he would never buy for himself except for the fact that he wanted to impress his wife.  Then they had gone to the gym just to kill a few hours.  After a workout, an hour in the steam room, and a massage, they had gone to the barber, and Steve had even let Paula convince him to let her use a color enhancer on his hair to give his gray more depth and highlights.  Actually, it hadn't taken much convincing.  After all the times he had colored his hair himself, he wasn't afraid or ashamed of a little hair dye.  He just couldn't allow her the satisfaction of giving in right away.  

He and Mark went to Barbecue Bob's for lunch, and to Steve's delight, Lauren had noticed something different about him but hadn't been able to pin it down to his hair.  After lunch, they had gone to New Heirlooms to see the jewelry set he had commissioned for Maribeth.  With Steve's approval and Mark's proclamation that it was 'just about perfect' the bracelet and earrings were sent off to the house.

They went down the street to a nearby flower shop, and arranged to have thirty red roses with baby's breath and ferns delivered later that evening, and then they caught up with Jesse as his shift at the hospital ended and went to catch the matinee showing of the thirty-fifth anniversary edition of _Jack Blood: Action Fist_ at the multiplex.  Mark had gone with Jesse, then, and he would catch a ride to his own house after they were sure Maribeth was gone.  Steve had headed back to the clothing store to put on his suit.  From there, he drove to the restaurant to meet Maribeth.

As Steve stood waiting for his wife, he couldn't help but grow nervous.  What if the hairdresser had screwed up?  What if she hadn't liked the dress?  What if the carpet cleaners were running late?  It had happened before.  He found himself amazed at how many limousines there were in LA, and it seemed that night every one of them was coming to L'Orangerie.  Each time one would pull up, his heart would leap into his throat, and when he realized it wasn't Maribeth, it would fall back down into his stomach.  _It's a good thing you aren't still having trouble with ulcers.  Funny how that just went away about a week after the trial. _ Finally, he recognized the chauffer he had hired for Maribeth, and as the young man helped her out of the car, he stepped forward and took her hand.

The limo pulled up outside L'Orangerie at seven thirty, and Maribeth couldn't help but gasp at the sight of her husband when the driver helped her out and gave her hand to him.  He was looking as handsome as she had ever seen him in a midnight blue silk suit with a white shirt and a dark blue silk tie with pinpoints of lighter blue.  His silver hair was shining like she had never seen it do before, and from her own experience earlier in the day, she knew it had been dyed, but decided not to say anything.

"Good evening, Mrs. Sloan," Steve said sounding rather nervous, "You look quite stunning this evening.  I trust you had a pleasant day."

Chuckling at the formality and blushing at the flattery, Maribeth responded in kind, "Thank you, Mr. Sloan, my day was wonderful.  My husband chose this dress for me, and I just adore it."

"The man has good taste."

"The man has excellent taste," she replied, still smiling as she saw the relief flooding over her husband's expression, "in jewelry as well as in clothes."  She held up her wrist so he could see the bracelet he had sent her.  "And he knows just what I like."

Steve duly admired the bracelet, and said, "Yes, it is a lovely piece.  Shall we go see if our table is ready?"

Maribeth just laughed and nodded and walked into the restaurant with him.  L'Orangerie was an elegant, expensive place, and they had only ever eaten there once before, five years ago on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.  While they could have afforded to dine there somewhat more often, it was not a pleasure to be taken for granted, and they had agreed then that they would only go back for something very special.

After she was seated at the intimate little table on the open-roofed patio, Maribeth leaned forward and said, "Steve, that suit is just perfect for you, and today, oh, today, everything was perfect.  I could never have asked for a better present in my life.  You have made me feel beautiful and sexy, spoiled, treasured, and cherished.  And dinner here?  I'm not complaining, but why so much?"

Steve smiled.  "Thank you," he said, "and you're welcome.  I'm glad you enjoyed it."  He fingered the lapel of his suit.  "I thought you'd like this color.  As for the rest, you'll find out later."

Maribeth gave a puzzled frown and opened her bag to get her reading glasses, but much to her surprise when the waiter came over to them, rather than handing her a menu, he placed l'oeuf au caviar petrossian in front of her.  Then he opened the wine and poured it for Steve to taste.  At his nod of approval, the waiter served them both and moved smoothly away. 

As Maribeth savored her caviar, she watched her husband, only to realize that he was just watching her.  She could feel herself blush from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes, touched to her soul by the love she saw in his eyes.  He'd been retired for a month and a half, now, and after a brief period of adjustment, they had enjoyed being almost constant companions.  Tonight though, she felt like everything was brand new.  She smiled to herself, hoping her gift to him would please him as much as he had delighted her.

After the dishes from their first course were whisked away, they sat and talked a bit about inconsequential things, and Maribeth was surprised at how readily her husband laughed.  She hadn't seen him so relaxed and happy in years.  The waiter returned a few minutes later bringing her a zucchini flower stuffed with baby vegetables, asparagus, and salad, and for Steve, he brought rock lobster and vegetables seasoned with just a hint of ginger.

As the waiter left, she asked, "Did you order my whole meal ahead for me?"

Steve shrugged and said, "Well, yeah, after thirty years I should know what you like."

"Well," Maribeth began rather icily, "let me just tell you," unable to hide her smile and tease him any longer, she said, "you've done a great job so far."  This time, she got to watch Steve blush.

The roses arrived just as the third course was served.  Thirty enormous red blooms with dark red petals edged in a velvety black.  With the ferns and baby's breath, the bouquet was too large for the table, and they had to borrow a spare collapsible serving tray from one of the waiters to hold it.  Not for the first time that day, Maribeth considered the expense he had gone to for their anniversary.  She knew they could afford it, but still, the extravagance was shocking.  

"Are these for me?" she asked, still a bit surprised that dinner wasn't the highlight of the evening.

Steve deadpanned, "No," and at her confused look, he said, "they're for thirty years of making me the happiest man alive."

Maribeth smiled coyly and asked, "All of them?"

"Every one."  He pointed to a rose.  "This one is for our wedding day.  This one, for the day you made me a father.  This is for when I found you safe and sound after the big quake, and this, for when we danced the night away at Amanda and Ron's wedding."

Between bites of turbot and vegetables, Maribeth would periodically lean over and smell the roses.  They were as fragrant as they were beautiful, and she couldn't bear to let them sit for long without enjoying them.  As he worked his way through his beef tenderloin and potato soufflé, Steve pointed out each rose for her, sometimes even turning the crystal vase so she could see a particular flower better, and for each bloom, he named a special moment they had shared during their marriage.  She wasn't sure, but she thought he'd managed to pick something from each of their thirty years together.

As they waited for dessert to arrive, Maribeth looked at her handsome husband and said, "Darling, everything has been so perfect today.  I have always known you were a romantic at heart, but this has all been amazing.  Thank you."

Steve smiled and said, "You're welcome, Mar, but it's not over yet."

As she opened her mouth to ask what more he could possibly have in store, a plate of _c__rème brûlée_ was placed in front of her.  With an impossibly smug grin, Steve said, "Eat your dessert."  When his chocolate and banana tart with rum ice cream was placed in front of him, he said, "Oh, that looks good," and began eating without another word.

Knowing there was nothing she could do to make him tell her before he was ready, Maribeth shrugged and turned to her dessert.  In years past, she used to accuse him of being sadistic in such situations, but she had eventually learned that pleading for hints and complaining about being made to wait only prolonged the waiting.  At the thought of the small gift in her purse, she knew that at least this time, she would be able to get even.

As their dessert plates were taken away, _petits fours_ and coffee were served.  For a while, they sat in silence, enjoying the company and the final course of their meal.  Then Steve swallowed down the last of his coffee and sighed.  Standing up, he came around the table and stood behind her.

"Close your eyes," he said.

She did, and sat up a little straighter and wriggled in her seat in anticipation.  She felt a fine chain against her neck, the weight of a pendant on her breast, and she felt her husband's hands fumbling with the delicate clasp.  Finally, it was fastened.  She felt Steve move from behind her, and then she felt his presence at her side. 

"May I open my eyes now?"

"Not yet.  I want you to listen to me a moment, and I want to be sure you hear everything I say."

"O-ok."

She heard him sigh, and then she felt him pull his chair over and sit down beside her.  "The night we met, I'd been a cop more than twenty years.  I could have retired over thirty years ago, but I loved my job.  I didn't know how to be anything other than a cop, Mar."

As Steve spoke, Maribeth could hear the emotion in his voice.  There were so many feelings there that he was holding back.  She was sure he had missed going into the precinct every day since he'd retired, but he'd never once complained and he'd never seemed anything less than happy to spend his days with her.  She tried to say something, but his fingertips touched her lips to hush her, and, not knowing another way to show him how she felt, she kissed them.

After a moment, Steve began talking again.  "I could do all of the husband and father things, most of the time, but I know I made some real mistakes, too, Mar.  I didn't know how to just _be_ a husband and father.  For thirty years, the police department was my life, and you and Steven were just a very wonderful part of my life, but over the past few months, I have found that I had it all backwards."

Maribeth opened her eyes.  She needed to look at him while he made this confession.  She needed him to see that she understood, and that he had nothing to apologize for.  He smiled at her, and continued.

"I know there were times when it would have been easier to leave than it was to stay, and I know, every time I was hurt, you hurt, too.  You've waited thirty years for this, for me to put you first.  I never did anything to deserve that kind of love or patience, but you have lavished it on me anyway.  I promise you Mar, for the next thirty years or however long life grants us, I will always put you first.  I will make you my life.

"This," he tapped the pendant at the end of her chain, and she caught his hand and held it while he spoke, "is to remind me of that promise, and to remind you of how grateful I am that you have waited all this time for me to get my priorities straight."

Steve smiled at her, a bit hopefully, and she smiled back.  Then she looked down to see a heart shaped locket, etched to match her earrings and bracelet, with flowering vines around the outside edge of the heart and a diamond set at the point.  On the pendant, though, was also etched, in remarkable detail, the image of Steve's police badge, right down to his rank and badge number.  In an arc over the badge were the words _Thanks for waiting for me._

"Oh, Steve, it's wonderful."

He smiled again, relieved.  "Open it."

The same flowering vines were etched on the inside of the heart, and on the left side were the words_ This is where my heart has always belonged_.  On the right, facing the inscription was a picture of herself and Steve with their son on the deck of the beach house.  It was her favorite photograph, taken the day they brought their new baby home from the hospital.

For several moments, she was too choked up to speak, and even when she finally knew what she wanted to say, she found she couldn't look her husband in the eye and talk to him without crying.  So, she closed her eyes, closed the locket and held it over her heart, and said, "Forget about the housekeeper.  Forget about breakfast, and the salon service, and the clothes, the jewelry, and the carpets.  Forget the car and dinner.  What I feel in here," she tapped her chest, "right now, with you, was worth the wait."

As she finished speaking, she opened her eyes and looked at her husband.  The love she saw shining in his eyes told her the feeling was mutual.  Steve kissed her tenderly, and then said softly, "Let's get out of here, go someplace more private."

She nodded, he signaled the waiter and paid the bill, and they left.

As the chauffeur held out his hand to help Maribeth into the limousine, Steve saw her lean forward and whisper something to the young man, who smiled and nodded approvingly.  Once she was settled, Steve handed the roses in to her and climbed in beside her.

They rode for a little while, laughing and talking, and after a few minutes, Steve realized that the car was headed in a direction completely different from that which he had instructed. Looking at his wife, he asked her, "Madame, have you hijacked my limousine?"

Maribeth smiled and joked with him, "Indeed, I have, sir."

After a thoughtful pause, Steve asked her, "And do you intend to ravish me when we get to our destination?"

Maribeth nodded, "Indeed, I do, sir."

Steve frowned for a moment and then smiled.  "Good."

Steve opened the small refrigerator that was in the limousine and took out two chilled glasses and a bottle of champagne.  He carefully opened the bottle so that it wouldn't spray all over the interior of the car, and poured them each a glassful.  As they sipped and flirted and kissed, he gradually realized that they were headed in the direction of Marina del Rey.  He knew there were several charter companies that offered moonlight cruises, and he smiled to think that Maribeth had booked one for them.  It was a splendid evening, and if it were a private cruise, he and his wife could continue their celebration on the aft deck, in a balmy ocean breeze, with no interference from the crew.

As the limo turned down Fiji Way to the Boatyard Marina and pulled to a stop, he smiled.  "So, I guess you have chartered us a cruise," he said.

"No, I haven't," she replied.

"Then what are we doing here?" he asked, puzzled.

As the limousine driver took her hand to help her out of the car, she told him laughingly, "I guess you'll just have to follow me and find out.  And you can tip the driver now.  We won't be needing his services any more this evening."

Steve sat dumbfounded for a moment, then he thrust Maribeth's bouquet into the driver's arms, scrambled out of the car, tipped the young man, took the flowers back, and hurried after her.  They reached the gate to the marina together, and she relieved him of the roses and said, "Your entrance code is 082303."

"Our wedding day."

She smiled.  "I'm glad you remembered."

He punched in the numbers and held the gate for her.

"Come along," she said as if she were leading a grade school tour of the marina, "Slip seventy two is this way."

When they reached the slip, she handed him the flowers for a moment, fished about in her bag, and took out a small set of keys.  Taking back the flowers, she handed him the keys and said, "Happy anniversary, darling."

For a moment, Steve thought she had rented a boat for another trip.  They'd had so much fun sailing to Catalina in July, that it was a perfectly natural assumption.  Then a thought occurred to him.

He had wanted a boat for years.  When his dad had a dying patient give him a lottery ticket for thirteen million dollars, he had lobbied long and hard to spend a portion of that money on a boat.  Again, when his dad had a patient leave him a boat in his will, Steve had felt the itch to take up sailing, but he had never bought a boat while he was single.  When he married Maribeth, anytime she caught him even entertaining the idea of finally making the purchase, she would put her foot down.  She insisted that it would just be one more thing he would never have the time to properly enjoy, that maintaining it would become a chore, and that the responsibility for paying all the associated bills and keeping the insurance, registration, and slip rental up to date would fall to her.  In retrospect, Maribeth was right, but in the present moment, he couldn't suppress the nervous little flutter of hope in his stomach.

"Mar?"

"It's yours," she said, unable to suppress a giggle.

"Mine."

"Well, ours, I guess, if you'll let me come aboard, Skipper."

"Oh, Mar.  I . . . I don't know what to say."

"'Thank you' would be a nice start, maybe followed by, 'Let's check her out.'"

"Ok . . . Thank you.  Let's check her out."

She wasn't a very big boat, just thirty-eight feet, but she was perfect for a weekend cruise with friends or an extended trip just for Steve and Maribeth.  It could sleep six, had an inflatable dingy, and a swim ladder.  There was hot and cold pressure water, lots of stowage, a television, with DVD player and surround sound, a head, and a shower with hot and cold fresh water.  The galley was a marvel in itself with double stainless steel sinks, a microwave, a two-burner propane stove with an oven, a food processor, a toaster oven, a refrigerator and freezer, a built-in trash can, and cooking pans and utensils.  The seats were upholstered in leather, the woodwork was cherry, and the counter tops in the galley were marble.  There was even a wet bar, and Maribeth had had the foresight to bring some of their clothes aboard earlier so they could spend the night.

"You like?" Maribeth asked hopefully.

"Oh, Mar, it's amazing," Steve gasped, still in awe.  "Thank you.  Why now?"

"Excuse me?"

"For thirty years, you have refused to let me even consider buying a boat.  Now this.  Why?"

Maribeth chose her words carefully.  "I always thought that owning a boat would be more trouble than it was worth.  It's a lot of work to maintain one, and we were both so busy with our jobs, our lives, and our family.  It didn't seem worth it.  But after our trip to Catalina, Steve, I had the most wonderful time, just the two of us, rocking on the waves, sailing under the stars . . . "

"Skinny dipping . . ." Steve supplied nuzzling close to her.

"That, too," she giggled and stepped away.  "I still think I was right to oppose it while we were working . . ."  Steve didn't say anything, but to her surprise, he made some sounds of reluctant agreement.  ". . . but now, we can sail off any time we want.  Back at the restaurant, you told me you wanted to spend the next thirty or more years putting me first.  I want to do that, too, for you, and I know you have always wanted a boat.  I guess it's sort of a gesture, to show you how much I love you and how happy I am that I waited until we could have this time to spend together.  I hope I've made you happy."

"You've made me very happy."

She smiled, relieved.  "Good.  So, what are you going to name her?"

"Name her?" Steve queried. 

"Yes, you've got to name her, she's a boat."  Maribeth opened the refrigerator and said, "Look, she even comes with a bottle of champagne so you can christen her."

Steve thought for a minute, and then, in a whispery voice said, "How about . . ._Make My Day_?"

Maribeth eyed him coolly for a minute and then said, "That is a bad Eastwood impersonation, and a very bad name for a boat.  It challenges people, and the whole point of this is to be able to go out on the ocean and relax whenever we want."

"Then you think of something better."

"Ok . . . " she paced the main cabin a bit, then, finding the quarters too close to allow her room to think, she went up on deck.  She walked to the aft end of the boat and stood there, watching the moonlight on the water for a while.  Steve stood behind her, one hand grasping the rail on either side of her.  He kissed her neck, behind her ear, her cheek.  Then she turned to him, and he kissed her passionately on the lips.  When they broke apart for air, she said, "How about, _Making Memories_?"

Steve appeared thoughtful for a moment, then said, "Not bad."  Then a slow grin spread across his face.  "We've been married thirty years now, and since we're making a fresh start, putting each other at the center of our lives, and planning for at least another thirty years more, how about _Memories of Tomorrow_?"

"Mmmm, I like that," Maribeth said and she kissed him this time, lingering with her lips pressed to his as she slowly backed him toward one of the lounge chairs on the aft deck.  They settled on the chair, still lost in the taste of each other, and after a few long moments, she broke the kiss long enough to say, "Let's start making some of those memories now."

The next morning, Mark was not surprised to see that his son and daughter-in-law had not come home.  When they retired, he had been worried about them.  For many years, they had both been hard-working professionals, deeply invested in their demanding, highly responsible jobs.  He had thought they would have trouble shifting from the stressful roles of Deputy Chief and Chief of Orthopedic Surgery to just being Steve and Maribeth, a retired couple, but to his surprise, after a short period of adjustment, they had settled right into a happy, relaxed, domestic life.  No, he was not at all surprised that they hadn't made it home last night; however, as he drank his morning coffee and looked out at the ocean through his telescope, he was astounded to see them, in their bathing suits, laying on matching lounge chairs, waving at him from the bow of a very attractive little sailboat.  


	37. Leigh Ann's Letters

**(Chapter 37.  The beach house.  September 8, 2033.)**

Steve opened the envelope and carefully unfolded the cheap prison stationery.  He didn't know why he was reading the letter again.  Maybe he needed to see the words one more time before he could put that disastrous chapter of his life completely behind him.  Two weeks ago, he had promised Maribeth his undivided attention for the rest of their days.  This was the last distraction, and when it was gone, he would finally be free to be the husband and father he wished he had always been.

_Chief Sloan,_

_So, you managed to get your bastard brat off Scot-free!  I guess you had to call in a few favors for that one.  Of course, maybe her mother was doing a few favors for you in return, eh?_

_I used to think you were a powerful man, but once I started working for you, I realized you were just stupid.  You could have been so much more if you had seen what someone like me could have done for you, but no, you had to be so incorruptible, so damned righteous.  You're nothing but a weak fool bound by rules.  _

_My daddy was a powerful man.  You may think he was one of the criminals he was supposed to capture, but you're mistaken.  He transcended the law.  He was bigger than right and wrong.  My mother couldn't understand his power, so she took me away from him.  Then you took my lover away from me.  Perhaps now it is finally my turn to take something away from you._

_I hate you, I have always hated you, and I could have destroyed you so many times over the years that it became a game to see if you would realize, but you never did, because you couldn't see past your stupid rules.  You were so easy to fool!  Mr. Gorini and I laughed long and loud at you many times.  As long as I appeared to be following the rules, you never had a clue.  If Lieutenant Stephens hadn't told you who I was, would I still be working for you, bugging your office and your phone, your house, reporting your every move to Mr. Gorini?  Probably._

_Maybe I'll just take your little bastard brat away from you._

_I know you think I am crazy, sick, and twisted, and I suppose in your little rule-bound world, I must be, but you helped make me what I am by helping my daddy take over the Ganza family.  When I lost him, my world fell apart.  I tried my best to make you pay for what you did to me and my mother and daddy, but you won anyway, and I can't tell you how much I regret that, how ashamed I am of my failure._

_By the time you get this letter, I will have gone to join my lover.  Of course, you know, my blood is on your hands, Chief.  And maybe that is the one thing I can take from you after all, the clear conscience that you never deserved, but always seemed to treasure so dearly.  _

_Enjoy your retirement, if you can._

_Leigh Ann_

Steve sighed.  He had to admit, as warped as her mind was, Leigh Ann had understood him perfectly, but the one thing she never got was the fact that life is choice driven.  Thirty years ago, Steve had chosen to go along with Chief Masters' scheme to install Ross Cainin as the head of the Ganza crime family.  Cainin made the choice to become a criminal.  Leigh Ann chose to blame Steve for her father's failures, and she chose to take her own life.  He regretted her death as he would the loss of any human life, but he certainly would not feel responsible for it.  

The only part of her letter that had provoked any response from him was the implication that she had bugged his home for Gorini.  He had simply called Cheryl and asked her to have a team come sweep the place.  Nothing was found, even when Ron called a friend at the FBI to double check, and now, Steve was satisfied that Leigh Ann had just been trying to cause him further distress.

Steve opened the other envelope, the one addressed to Emily.  As far as he knew, no one was aware that they had been keeping in touch, and he really had no idea why the young woman had wanted to maintain contact with him of all people.  She couldn't even bring herself to say his name.  

Em had initiated the communication by calling him on his cell phone out of the blue one day, and had given him her private number.  She had she moved into her parents' guest house almost immediately after returning to Pennsylvania because she didn't want her mother in her hair all the time, but needed her parents close by in case she got into trouble.  When Steve had joked that he thought Em was quite capable of getting herself out of any trouble she might get into, he was greeted with silence and found himself apologizing for his thoughtlessness.  Emily might be just like her mother in many ways, but at the same time, she was very different, and she apparently lacked the ability to laugh her way through tough times like her mother did.

When he mentioned Leigh Ann's letter for the first time, Emily had insisted that she was not the least bit interested in what the madwoman might have had to say.  On her second phone call, she had asked him to read her the letter, and after he did, she had assured him that she didn't believe a word of it and that she would be returning to LA before Christmas.  The third time she called, she asked him to destroy the letter for her.

Since he had read it aloud to her over the phone, Steve didn't think Emily would mind his reading the letter once more before he got rid of it for good.  The first time he had read the letter, he had been amazed at how cleverly Leigh Ann had disguised her anger and insanity in her words.  Now, her devious skill with the language chilled him.  If she had presented herself so reasonably to a jury, she would have gone free, and his world never would have been safe from her evil designs.

_My dear Emily,_

_So, you got off.  Why am I not surprised?  You might not be the daughter that Sloan thought you were, but still he had to protect you, didn't he, if only to save his reputation?  To be quite honest, I really don't mind.  I am pleased that you got away with all you did.  It makes me happy that someone has finally beaten this ridiculous legal system we have._

_I need to warn you, though, about your relationship with Chief Sloan.  He is a vain and manipulative man.  You are involved with his son, and that means that you are involved with him too.  You should know that weakling boy will never be more than he is because his daddy can't stand the competition.  I realize that you are an exceptionally bright young woman with a great future ahead of you.  Do not let them hold you back!  Pull yourself away from the Sloan family and their influences._

_I know you told Chief Sloan about me, Emily, and frankly, I am grateful.  I don't think I could have borne much more of his high and mighty righteousness.  This is the right ending for me, much better than just fading away in the dullness of being his assistant.  Trust me when I tell you that he will never let you breathe, never let you be what you have the potential to be.  I should know.  As his secretary, I never got the chance to be anything else._

_You and I are two of a kind, Emily.  I know you will try to deny it, but I also know who and what you were before you took up with the likes of Chief Sloan.  You were wild and free, and smart enough to do anything that you wanted.  You were above the law until you decided to become a cop._

_All that honor, 'to serve and to protect', and what did it get you?  A defective body and the threat of the gas chamber, the end of your career, and freedom.  _

_Do you still think you did the right thing to save him?  Do you think he would have done the same for you?  Not in a million lifetimes.  He thought you were his daughter, and you were sleeping with his son.  Your death would have saved him a scandal that might just have tarnished that shiny reputation of his._

_Now that you can no longer be a cop, I urge you to revert to your true nature.  Leave LA.  Get away from the Sloans and their meddling ways.  Rejoice in your ability to be and do whatever you want.  You are already rich.  Now make yourself powerful.  Throw out the rules, and make your own way in the world.  It is the only way you will ever be who you truly are._

_Your concerned friend,_

_Leigh Ann_

With another sigh and a shudder, Steve threw the letters into the flames in the fireplace.  Then he took out his cell phone and dialed a familiar number.

"Em? . . . It's Steve, uh, Chief Sloan."  He never knew how to identify himself to her.  He really wanted to be on friendly, familiar terms, and she seemed to want it, too, but her respect for him ran so deep that she couldn't bring herself to call him anything other than Chief or Sir.

"I'm fine, thanks, how are you, Em? . . . Really? . . . That's wonderful!  Steven will be so pleased . . . Are you sure?  I wish you would let me tell him something.  He misses you so much . . . No, I don't understand, but I will respect your wishes . . . So when are you coming back to LA? . . . Can't you be any more specific than 'before Christmas?'"

Steve knew Emily had a lot of issues to work through, and he fervently hoped that she would eventually allow his son to help her face some of them, but every time he mentioned Steven, she swore him to secrecy.  Every time he asked about her plans, he got the same vague answer, 'before Christmas.'  It was damned annoying, but he didn't want to alienate her when she was in such a fragile state, so kept his temper in check.

"Yeah, life is good here.  Maribeth and I celebrated our thirtieth wedding anniversary a couple of weeks ago . . . Oh, lots of things.  I had the carpets cleaned and took her out to dinner_, _gave her some jewelry. . . Ok, listen, I know scheduling the Stanley Steamer Carpet Cleaner was not the height of romance, but she'd been nagging about it for weeks, and besides, she seemed pleased with everything, including clean rugs . . . Oh, she gave me a boat! . . . Yeah, thirty-eight feet and it sleeps six.  I couldn't believe it! . . . I'd be happy to take you and Steven out in it some time . . ."

Steve waited for Emily to acknowledge his offer.  She'd been gone two months, and she had yet to give any indication of what her intentions were concerning his son.  As the silence grew uncomfortably long, Steve decided to finish his business and end the call.

"Well, I just called to let you know I burned Leigh Ann's letters tonight . . . I was just giving you time to change your mind . . . You're welcome . . . I will, you too . . . Talk to you later, Em . . . Good bye."

Steve hung up the phone with a sigh.  Whatever Emily's plans were, she was certainly being tight-lipped about them.  He just hoped that they included his son.


	38. Healing

**(Chapter 38.  University of Pittsburgh Medical Center, Olivia's house in Pennsylvania, a restaurant in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania.  July 6-October 28, 2033.)**

"Keep going," Dr. Braslava Zeljeznjak, Emily's cardiologist said.  "Keep running."  

Emily did as ordered, her feet pounding the treadmill, her long legs eating up the virtual miles.  It had been a long journey to get to this point, but Emily could now see that the end of this journey was really just the beginning of another, hopefully much better one.

"Heart rate is in the target range.  How do you feel?" the doctor asked. 

"Slava, I feel like I could run forever," Emily replied with a grin, and she kept on going.

Emily's road to recovery had been fraught with hurdles and pitfalls.  For the first three months after the shooting, anxiety and depression over her prospects for the future had been a major roadblock to any improvement in her condition.  By the time she should have been walking on the beach in the cool of the morning for exercise, it was as much as she could do to cross the room with assistance.  

After her acquittal, her mental state and physical condition had improved markedly in just a few days, but even then, when she had returned to Pennsylvania with her parents, she had felt weak and feeble.  Getting her mother's reluctant blessing to stay in the guesthouse on her own had been a major coup.  The truth was she couldn't bear the thought of having her mother in her hair all the time, but she still felt too frail to be completely on her own.  The little house at the end of the garden had provided her with the ideal combination of independence and security, privacy and closeness to her parents.

_"Mama, I will **not** stay in the house with you and Daddy.  The more you do for me, the less I will do for myself, and the longer it will take to get my strength back.  We both know, as long as I am in the house with you, you won't be able to let me do things on my own."_

_"But, Em . . . "_

_"**No**, Mama!  If you won't let me move into the guest house, I will call a cab right now and have the driver take me to the University of Pittsburgh Rehab Center."_

_Olivia hesitated.  There was no doubt she'd rather have her daughter three minutes away at the end of the garden instead of two hours away at Pitt, but she hated the thought of Emily being on her own.  She was still too fragile._  And you are too protective.  Face it, Olivia, the girl is right.  You'd do more than cramp her style, you'd hinder her recovery.

_Sighing, she finally said, "Ok, I'll get you the keys, but I reserve the right to check up on you.  Frequently."_

_Emily smiled a gratefully delighted smile.  "Thank you, Mama, but please, call before you come over."_

"Looking good, Em, you still ok?"

"I'm great."

"Ok, I'm going to speed it up a little, try to max you out."

"Bring it on, sister!"  

Emily liked her doctor enormously.  She didn't know much about the older woman's background, just that in the 1990's, at the age of twelve, she'd immigrated with her parents to the United States from Croatia to escape the civil conflicts that plagued her homeland.  Slava knew a little about Emily from the news, and when they met they had each sensed in the other the tremendous struggles they had faced and the immense personal losses they had overcome.  Slava had promised Emily she would do everything in her power to help her, and Emily had promised Slava to work hard, and now, three months later, it was becoming increasingly clear that their efforts had paid off.

_"No, Mama, absolutely not!" Emily insisted as she paused for breath halfway up to the second-floor gym in her parents' house.  She'd been home a month, and still found the walk from her place at the end of the garden into the house and up to the gym a bit taxing.  Once she got there, she tended to spend her whole morning exercising.  She could manage about ten minutes at a time on the treadmill before she needed to stop and rest, and toward lunchtime, her walking spells became shorter and shorter and her rests became longer and longer.  She hadn't even dared trying any of the weight machines, the stair master, or the stationary bike yet._

_"But, Em, I just want to make things easier for you."_

_"Mama, you're being ridiculous!  The whole point of walking up these stairs to the gym every day is to get some exercise and rebuild my strength and stamina.  Installing a lift chair would be counterproductive.  So, what if I have to stop for rest on the landing?  Eventually, I'll be able to take them in one go.  Making things easier now will only make them harder in the long run."_

_ "I'm sorry, sweetie," Olivia said, trying to hide her tears, but she knew her daughter could tell she was about to cry.  "It's just so hard to watch you struggle all the time."_

_Touched by the depth of her mother's compassion, Emily reached out and gave her mom a hug.  "I know, Mama, and I'm sorry it's so difficult for you to let me do it on my own."  She let Olivia go and started laboriously climbing the stairs again.  "Maybe it would be easier if every time you started fretting over me, you reminded yourself that every obstacle I overcome is one step closer to being healthy again.  If I were any other patient, you'd admire my gumption and encourage me to press on, wouldn't you?"_

_"Probably," Olivia admitted with a sniff, "but you're not just any other patient, you're my daughter."_

_"And I'm lucky for that," Emily admitted, and she stopped and looked down at her mother, who was clearly struggling with the urge to take her by the arm and support her on the way up the stairs.  "Mama, I know you'll always be there for me, no matter what I need, but right now, the thing I need most is for you to let me do things on my own."_

_Olivia nodded and said, "I know that, and I'm trying, but do you think I could at least make you some lunch?"_

_Emily smiled.  "Grilled ham and cheese with tomato soup would be great.  Say around noon?  But don't bring it up to me.  I'll come down and eat in the kitchen with you."_

_Offering a weak smile, Olivia agreed.  "Will you want saltines or chips with that?"  
  
_

_"Actually, if you have some of those tiny little oyster crackers, that would be great.  If not, saltines will do."  When her mother just stood there, watching her, Emily frowned and finally asked, "Are you afraid I'll fall down the steps?"_

_Olivia shrugged.  "I can't help myself.  Just let me hover here until you get to the top."_

_Smiling, and with a resigned shake of her head, Emily turned and started up the stairs once more._

"So, what's the word?" Emily asked, slightly nervous.  She had felt good throughout the entire stress test, but she knew the charts and figures her doctor was studying said more about her medical condition than her own general sense of well-being.

Slava peered at her over her reading glasses and said, "You know your heart muscle is scarred, right?"

Emily frowned and nodded.  "Yeah, I know that."

"And you know you will never have the stamina you did before you were shot, don't you?"

"I know that, too, Slava, but how was my test?  How am I?"

"I'm going to call Alex and have him schedule another stress test in LA in about six months."

"Six months!  Slava, that's a long time."

Slava smiled.  "I know, Em, but you're doing at least as well as a lot of so-called healthy patients.  If you have no complications, and if the test in six months is all clear, I'm going to recommend switching you to annual checkups.  At this point, monthly monitoring is just a waste of your time and the hospital's resources."

A bit shocked, Emily looked at her doctor and friend and said, "That's it, then?  I'm ok?"

"Well, I wouldn't suggest entering a marathon next week," the doctor joked, "but a 3K or a 5K race shouldn't be a problem if you feel up to it."

"Slava!  Be serious!" Em pleaded.  "This is my life you're talking about."

"I am serious, Em.  At this point, if you feel up to it, you are up to it and you might as well do it, whatever it is.  When you get tired, stop and rest.  Your body will tell you when enough is enough, and it will warn you, many times, before it gives out entirely."

Emily frowned, deeply puzzled by what she was hearing.  "So, um, I'm really better now?" Em said, and Slava nodded, for the tone of her statement had made it a question.  "I'm not a patient anymore?"

"As you age, your heart, because of the damage done to it, will probably deteriorate faster than any of your other organs," Slava explained, "except for maybe your kidney.  But that won't start until you reach your sixties or seventies, so, yeah, for the next thirty or forty years, you're ok."

Suddenly, Emily's expression crumpled.  She brought both hands up to cover her face and began weeping quietly.  When her doctor came to sit beside her and put an arm around her shoulders, she dashed her tears away with the back of her hand and said, "I'm sorry.  I don't know what's wrong with me.  All of a sudden, I'm scared."

"Shh, it's ok, Em," Slava soothed her.  "You're not the first patient I've had who's gotten nervous at the prospect of returning to a normal life."

"Slava, I've _never_ had a normal life!" Emily wailed.  "How in the hell am I supposed to _return_ to one?"

To Emily's great dismay, Slava just laughed.  In fact, the frightened young woman was so shocked at her doctor's reaction to her fears that her tears suddenly stopped coming.  "Emily, one of these days you are going to have to learn that nobody is normal.  We are all making it up as we go along, just like you.  I think once you get your mind around that fact, you'll be just fine."

"You think so?" Emily sniffled.

"Yes, I do," Slava told her sincerely.

Emily sat for a long moment fighting with her emotions.  Her lower lip stuck out and her chin started trembling.  Suddenly, her whole face puckered, and Slava was sure she was going to turn on the waterworks again.  Emily covered her eyes with her hands, then pushed her hair out of the way, her fingertips meeting at the top of her forehead.  As she sat there with her eyes closed, taking deep breaths, her face contracted and relaxed several times and the tears fought for release.  From where she sat, Slava could see the moment when, through sheer force of will, her patient made a mental adjustment and decided that everything would be ok.

"Well, then," Emily said, offering a tremulous smile, "I guess I just need to suck it up, stop blubbering, and get on with it, don't I?"  Her voice sounded far less certain than her words, but Slava could hear the steely determination underlying the fear of the unknown future.

Smiling, and giving her patient a friendly pat on the arm, she said, "Yes, I think you do."

_Emily waited nervously for the hostess of the Texas Grill to come and seat her.  She hadn't seen her ex-husband in over a year, and she hadn't spoken with him since she had joined the LAPD.  When she called to suggest that they get together, she'd been surprised at his eagerness to see her and even more surprised when he suggested meeting her for dinner at the restaurant where they'd had their first date.  _

_"Hey, Becky," she said as the hostess came up to greet her.  She and Becky had gone to school together, and though they'd never been particularly close, they were always on friendly terms._

_"Em!  It's nice to see you.  You're looking well.  How are you feeling?"_

_Emily smiled.  "Better every day.  If I don't push it too hard, I can actually jog about six kilometers on the treadmill now.  It takes me longer than it used to, but I can do it.  In fact, I have another stress test tomorrow, and I really think the results will be the best ones yet."_

_"Oh, that's good to know," Becky said.  "We were all real worried when we heard about the shooting, and real proud of you for saving that other cop.  I'm so happy you're doing better."_

_"Thanks, Beck," Emily replied, "I appreciated all the thoughts and prayers and get-well cards from everyone.  It helped a lot to know all of Punxsutawney was behind me."  Emily hoped she sounded sincere.  She really was thankful for all of the support she'd gotten from the entire town, but having the same conversation a half a dozen times whenever she went out in public made it harder and harder to sound like she meant what she said.  "I, uh, I'm here to have dinner with Ian.  Has he arrived yet?"  
  
_

_"Yep, he's been here about ten minutes.  I'll take you to him."_

_When Emily arrived at the table, Ian stood and pulled her chair out for her with a smile that indicated he was genuinely glad to see her.  _

_"Ever the gentleman," Emily smiled after she'd taken her seat and Ian had slid into the chair across from her._

_"Can I help it my mama raised me right?" Ian joked back._

_"I suppose not," Emily replied, "but that's all right.  It's one of your many charms."_

_They lapsed into awkward silence for a minute and both sighed with relief when the waitress brought over the menus.  All too soon, she was back with their drinks and had taken their orders and left them staring warily at one another._

_"You look good, Em," Ian finally interjected into the silence.  "Real good.  How you been feeling?"_

_"Like I've had this conversation a thousand times already," Emily said with a smile._

_Ian grinned back and shrugged.  "Sorry, I reckon it's the obvious question.  I don't suppose most folks know what else to say first.  It's not like we can pretend we don't know what happened to you out in LA."_

_Emily nodded, "No, I suppose not, but I know it's asked with genuine concern, and I am flattered that so many people care.  I'm . . . ok, Ian.  And how are you?  You're looking well." _

_ When he stood to pull out her chair, Emily had noticed at a glance that he was still very trim and in top physical condition.  Now sitting at the table facing him, she noticed how the green flannel shirt he wore brought out his eyes.  His dark brown, wavy hair was a little longer than he used to keep it, and it was combed straight back from his forehead instead of parted and combed off to the side.  She could faintly smell his aftershave, and realized it was a new scent.  _

_Ian grinned and nodded.  "I'm doing good, great, in fact, even though you might say I'm going to the dogs."_

_At her confused look, he smiled and continued.  "Your Uncle Ken got authorization for another K-9 unit with the sheriff's department.  Most of the guys think we should get a German shepherd or a rottweiler, but I think we should get a bloodhound.  We spend more time looking for lost campers than we do running down criminals, and I don't think an attack dog would earn his keep.  Since we already have Fritz for our drug-sniffing dog, it just makes more sense to get a bloodhound."_

_"I see, but bloodhounds, aren't they kind of messy?"_

_Keith laughed.  "Well, I was reading the American Kennel Club breed standard a few days ago, and they admit, and I quote, 'Bloodhounds do drool.'  So, I suppose the answer is yes.  Still, since your Uncle Ken has decided that I'm the one who is going to go through K-9 training, I'm hoping he will let me decide what kind of dog we get."_

_"Well, Uncle Ken's usually a reasonable guy.  I think if you made a good case he will leave the decision up to you."_

_The conversation tailed off for a few minutes after the waitress brought their meals.  Emily closed her eyes, savored the first few bites of her burger, and sighed contentedly.  When she looked at Ian again, she found him just watching her.  _

_"What?"_

_"You're the only woman I've ever known who feels no shame in letting people know she likes their cooking," Ian said as he cut off a bite of his steak._

_Emily shrugged.  "I inherited a high metabolism from my mama, and there's a lot more of me to feed.  I work hard and burn it all off, so I might as well enjoy it.  Besides, nobody makes burgers like they do here.  There's chopped green peppers, onion, celery, and tomato right in the meat."_

_"Oh, I wasn't picking at you, Em," Ian assured her.  "Matter of fact, it's one of the things I've always loved about you, and it's a compliment to any cook.  I just can't stand sitting down to a table with a woman who pecks at her food like a chicken.  Makes me wonder why I waste the money."_

_Emily gave him a curious look, but did not reply.  They sat eating in silence for a few more minutes, until Ian spoke again._

_"I hear you've had to leave the force."_

_Emily nodded sadly and shrugged.  "You've got to have all your vital parts, and I'm missing a kidney."_

_"I always knew it would happen someday."_

_Emily froze for a moment, then she chewed and swallowed her mouthful of food.  Putting her hamburger down, she wiped her hands on her napkin and grabbed her purse._

_"I think I should be going," she said.  "I didn't come here to play 'I told you so'."_

_As she rose from the table, Ian, grabbed her by the wrist.  "Please, Em, I wasn't saying 'I told you so'."_

_"It sure as hell sounded like it!  Let me go."_

_"Come on, Em," Ian pleaded, "sit down and hear me out.  I didn't mean to hurt you, I'm just not very good at saying what I mean.  You know that."_

_A year ago, she might have come back with biting sarcasm, pulled herself loose from his grip, and stormed out, but experience had changed her.  Now, she looked into his eyes, saw the sincerity there, swallowed her anger, and sat back down to face him._

_"I'm listening."_

_"In the past, I said and did a lot of things I shouldn't have, things I wasn't proud of, but I never meant to hurt you, Em.  No gentleman has any business treating a lady the way I did you."_

_"Then why did you do it?"_

_"Oh, come on, Em.  You know how it is.  The man is the head of the household, and the woman follows his lead.  You never listened to me."  _

_"I always listened, Ian.  I just didn't always obey."_

_"So I noticed," he snapped._

_Emily really didn't know what to say next, so she just waited quietly.  Eventually, Ian took a deep breath and paused to compose his thoughts.  Then, staring at the tablecloth because it was easier than facing Emily, he confessed, "You were my wife.  I was supposed to keep you out of trouble, keep you safe.  That's kind of hard to do when your wife's a cop.  I guess . . . I wanted to control you."  _

_There was a long silence following his admission, and then Emily finally said, "I don't understand, Ian.  Why didn't you just tell me you were worried for my safety instead of always cutting me down?"_

_"Women worry about problems," Ian said.  "Men solve them."_

_"Uh-huh," Emily said, clearly not believing.  "And by pretending not to do the former, you utterly failed to do the latter.  You said a lot of things that really hurt me, Ian, things that made me feel like you thought I was incompetent . . . reckless . . . Did you do all of that because I'm a woman?"_

_"Em, I always knew you were a good cop, and I never thought you were reckless, despite what I might have said." _

_When Emily didn't interrupt, but simply reached out and put a hand over his, Ian continued talking.  "I always knew what kind of person you are, Em, how honorable and dependable you are.  You've never been afraid of taking on the most dangerous jobs and making the hardest choices.  You're tougher than any man I've ever known.  I knew you would always do the right thing, and that because of the kinds of jobs you signed up for, one day you would have to make a choice."  _

_Finally, he met her eyes.  "I knew, when it came right down to it, you'd sacrifice yourself for someone else, and never think twice, and never look back."_

_"It goes with the job, Ian," Emily said, and gently began rubbing the back of his hand.  "You would have done the same thing."_

_He shook his head and looked away again, watching the hand caressing his.  "I . . . I'm not so sure," he said.  "I think with most folks, you can never tell until they're squeezed, but you're always so intense, so determined.  I knew just what you would do, and I was afraid to lose you."_

_"So, you pushed me away instead?  Ian, that doesn't make sense."_

_Ian shrugged.  "It hurt a hell of a lot less than losing you to the job would have."_

_"Maybe for you."_

_At the sound of her soft words, Ian looked up, and was surprised to see Emily's eyes glistening with tears.  "It's not your fault things didn't work between us.  I just had to be who I was, you know?  And I was never timid or particularly careful.  I didn't change when I became a cop, and I couldn't change when I married you.  Unfortunately, even though I was a good cop, I was a lousy wife.  Don't blame yourself, Ian.  You were a good husband."_

_Ian smiled.  "And you were a good wife, Em.  I guess we just weren't good for each other."_

_She gave Ian's hand a little squeeze.  "Tell me, since we split, have you ever thought about trying again?"_

_Ian squeezed back.  "Yeah, a few times.  But it would never work." _

_"I suppose not," she said, trying to keep her voice light but not letting go of his hand.  "Opposites attract, but we were two of a kind, both looking for someone to protect."_

_"Yeah, and besides, I'm engaged to be married in December, Em."_

_Emily froze at the news.  Then she slowly drew her hand out of Ian's grasp and brought it to rest in her lap.  "I see."_

_"Besides, Em, if I'm not mistaken, you have a fella waiting for you back in LA, don't you?"  Ian smiled, but slowly, his smile turned to confusion.  "I . . . I'm sorry.  I'd heard that you two were practically engaged."_

_"I don't know," Emily shrugged.  "Maybe we are.  He asked, but I didn't answer."_

_"Why not?"_

_"I was still awfully weak at the time, Ian," she explained.  "I didn't know if I was going to get better.  I didn't think it would be fair to saddle him with an invalid for the rest of his life."_

_Ian frowned.  "I thought this guy was a doctor."_

_"He is, why?"_

_"Don't you reckon he would know, at least as well as you do, whether you're ever gonna get better?"_

_"I suppose, but what does that have to do with anything?"  Emily's tone made plain her confusion._

_"Well, he's seen you at your worst, hasn't he?  And he still wants to marry you, right?"_

_Slowly, Em began to smile, and then to blush.  "Yeah, he does."_

_"All things being equal, would you have said yes when he asked?"_

_Em nodded.  "Probably."_

_"Then you should call the boy tonight and accept his proposal, Em.  Just because it didn't work for us doesn't mean it can't work you and him."_

_When Emily gave no other answer than a noncommittal nod of her head, Ian, not wanting to push the issue and upset her, went back to his steak.  For the rest of the meal, they spoke of inconsequential things and Ian caught Emily up on the local happenings, but neither Steven nor Ian's fiancée were mentioned again._

As her patient slowly came to grips with the fact that she would no longer need to be under a doctor's regular care, Slava went over various precautions Emily would need to take, and symptoms she didn't dare ignore.  It was all information Em would know, and she would also get it all it in writing, but Slava knew eventually her patient would have further questions about her condition and her future.  She was just going over the recommended preventive measures to give Em time to order her thoughts.

"It would also be wise to update your immunizations and to get an annual flu shot.  A lot of common illnesses can be very taxing to the system, and there's no sense risking infection when it can be so easily preven . . . "

"Wait.  Hold on."  Emily waved her hand and shook her head.  Slava stopped talking and let the silence stretch.  Finally, Em leaned forward and grew very serious.  "I only have one question.  Would it be safe for me to have a child?"  
  


"That's harder to answer than you might think, Em," Slava said.  "It would definitely be a high risk pregnancy, but I have seen women in much worse condition than you have perfectly normal pregnancies and give birth to perfectly healthy babies.  I have also seen women who have never been sick a day in their lives suffer unforeseeable complications.  As a doctor, I can't tell you anything for certain one way or the other.  As you friend and as a mother, I can promise you that if and when you want to start a family, you'll know if you need to try to have a biological child."

"In other words, if I ever do get pregnant," Emily sought to clarify, "it's a toss up.  Heads, I'll be fine, tails, there will be problems."

"That's right."  
  


Emily gave her friend a lopsided grin, suddenly more cheerful than she had been since finding out she was finally well.  "You know.  For the first time in a long time, I think I'm feeling lucky."


	39. Reconciliation

**(Chapter 39.  Olivia's house in Pennsylvania, Emily's house in Brentwood, LAPD headquarters, in the air on various cross-country flights.  October 29, 2033.)**

Emily yawned and stretched as she dozed in the tub.  She was still stiff and sometimes sore in the mornings, and had found that a warm soak before breakfast helped limber her up.  She supposed it would take a long time for those symptoms to pass off, if they ever did.  She was dozing because she hadn't slept very well the night before.  

Two nights ago over dinner, Ian's suggestion to call Steven and accept his proposal had set a bee buzzing in her bonnet.  Then yesterday, finding out that she was, for all practical purposes, recovered, had left her stunned and excited and not quite sure what to do next.  She knew she had to do something with her life, but the task of figuring out just what that something would be seemed quite daunting.  She'd called the Chief just to test the waters and see what, if anything might be available to her with the LAPD, but she had carefully avoided any mention of Steven.  She knew she didn't want to be alone forever, but she didn't think it was fair to drag him back into her life until she had some idea of who and what she wanted to be now that she was no longer able to be cop.

She let her hands play over her body as she thought.  The gentle massage and the sweet scent of orange blossom were simultaneously calming and invigorating, allowing her to focus her mind more intensely.  Unfortunately, she was only able to focus on an empty spot in her brain where some sort of plan for the future should be.  As her left hand slid over her breast, her fingertips brushed the scar on her chest.  It still pulled every now and then, just to remind her it was there.  She followed it all the way down her front to just past where her bellybutton had been.  She would never forget the shock of discovering that it had disappeared because of the surgery to save her life, and she had often wondered if Steven knew just how bad she looked under her clothes.  

She worked her way up her body again, to the incision that ran across her abdomen.  Sometimes she felt such a mess.  Besides the two long scars running the length and breadth of her torso, she had scars on each shoulder from bullet wounds, one put there by Rossi, and the other by Leigh Ann.  There were also numerous marks where drains had been inserted, and a scar on her back from the second, failed surgery to save her kidney.

Suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to know Steven was waiting for her, she launched herself out of the tub and, without even bothering to dry herself, slipped into her robe and padded off to her bedroom.  She sat on her bed for several minutes, phone in hand, wondering if she should call.  With the time difference, it was very early for Steven.  Finally, desperately needing reassurance, and deciding that quarter of six was neither too early to wake him if he was working nor too late for him to go back to sleep if he was not, she dialed and held her breath.  

Steven was a remarkably sound sleeper, at least when she was in bed with him, and she would not be surprised if he never heard the phone.  As she listened to it ring, she thought about the message she would leave.  Frowning as she realized the ringing had continued for an unusually long time, she decided he must have turned the answering machine off.  Smiling, she decided that meant he was home, and she waited for him to come answer.

_"All right already," Lauren Travis shouted as Larry, the cook, kept dinging the bell to tell her an order was up.  "I'll get it in a minute!"  She turned back to what she was doing and realized she had no idea whatsoever what that was.  The bell kept going, annoying her no end, and suddenly she realized it wasn't the order up bell, but the phone.  She looked toward the phone and realized it was missing.  Unable to believe her eyes, she blinked, and . . . _

Woke up.  _Oh, I was dreaming.  _The phone kept ringing, and now she heard running water.  Steven was in the shower.  He'd woken her a little while ago, but she must have dozed off again.  "The phone!"  She jumped off the couch where she had fallen asleep in her clothes last night after putting Steven to bed, and started running to answer it.  Then she realized she wasn't sure where the phone was in this house, stopped and listened for the sound, and turned back to the end table at the foot of the couch.

"Hello?"

She was greeted with silence.

"Hello?  Are you still there?"

"Uh . . . yes . . . May I speak to Steven?"

"I'm sorry, he's in the shower.  We just got up.  May I take a message?"

"N-no, no thanks.  Goodbye."  There was a deep shuddering gasp, and then the click of the phone being hung up, followed by silence.

Olivia was sleeping in.  Keith and Emily had stayed up late playing HORSE and talking about things, and the noise of the basketball striking the pavement had kept her awake.  She'd tried hard not to eavesdrop, but she'd heard enough mentions of 'the Chief', 'Steven', and 'the department' to know her daughter was trying to make plans for her future.  It hurt to think that Emmy wouldn't confide in her or seek her advice, but Olivia had reminded herself that Em was much more independent than she herself had ever been.  As long as Emily was talking things over with someone instead of trying to solve her problems all by herself, Liv had to be satisfied.  Besides, when she was small, Emmy had always called for Mama when she had a nightmare.  It was only as Emily began to grow up and socialize more that Keith really began to understand her better.

It was the third ring before Liv rolled over and answered the phone by the bed.

"Mama," she heard Emily sob.  The rest was just distraught gibberish, but the knowledge that her only child needed her was enough to galvanize Olivia into action.  

"I'll be there in two minutes," she said.  "Talk to Daddy."  She shook Keith awake and thrust the phone into his hand.  "There's something wrong with Emily.  I'm going to the guesthouse."

She thrust her arms into her robe and placed her husband's prosthetic legs beside him, leaning them against the bed where he could easily reach them, and she was gone.

"Don't be gone long," Maribeth admonished her husband.  "We need to decorate for Halloween today, and then we're taking the kids on the children's ward trick-or-treating at the hospital, right?"

"Don't worry, Mar, I didn't forget," Steve said, coming back for another kiss goodbye.  "Tanis only gave me half an hour to make my proposal, and then I just need to stop by Bob's and be sure they have enough sauce to last the weekend.  I'll be home by ten."

"I'll miss you 'til then," she promised.  "Drive carefully."

"Will do," Steve said, climbing into his car.  He tooted the horn once, and Maribeth stood and waved from the porch until he turned onto the street.

By the time Steven came staggering out from the shower, Lauren had breakfast ready for him: dry toast, black coffee, a banana, and a thick, orangeish goo in a glass.  "What is this?" he inquired as he picked up the glass and swirled the glop around.

"Your granddad's secret family hangover cure," Lauren informed him, "guaranteed to work, or at least make you think long and hard before you get plastered again.  That is, if it doesn't kill you first."

Steven gave a bleary, lopsided smile and asked, "If it's so secret, how come you know about it?"

Grinning, she said, "Because your granddad trusts me."

"Wonder why," Steven commented and lifted the glass to his lips for a taste.  As he did so, Lauren stepped forward and grabbed his wrist with one hand while placing her other hand against the back of his head.  Steven was so taken aback by this, that he found he had no choice but to drink the disgusting stuff.

"Bleah!  Ugh!  What _is_ that slop?"  Steven sputtered as he slammed the glass to the table.  He shuddered and shivered and gasped for air, then drank his coffee all in one go to wash away the taste of it.

"Oh, relax, you big baby, it won't hurt you, and it really does replace a lot of the nutrients alcohol depletes.  Your granddad explained it all to me."

"Yeah, and did he teach you that forced feeding technique, too?"

Lauren grinned.  "Nah.  I learned that when I was living in the dormitory on campus.  I got tired of listening to my roommate whine, so I introduced her to the cure."

"And she didn't have you charged with assault?"

"Ha ha."  Lauren did not sound amused.  "Remember you said that in an hour, when you are feeling much better."

Looking at what remained of his breakfast, Steven decided Lauren wouldn't poison him after all, and he began to nibble at his toast.  Lauren watched him for a few minutes, and then decided to bring up the reason she had spent the night on his, or, more to the point, Emily's couch.

"Steven, why don't you just call her?"

Steven put the toast down and started peeling his banana.  As he worked intently at peeling the little strings off it, he said without looking up, "She made it very clear when she left that I was to leave her alone.  She said, and I quote, 'Don't call me.  I don't want to talk to you.'"

Lauren sighed like a teacher patiently dealing with a confused student.  "Steven, sometimes women say that just because they want to see if you _will_ call."

"Not Em."

"Nonsense!" Lauren argued.  "We all need to know that you can't live without us."

"That's beside the point.  Anyway, I don't have her number back East."

Lauren frowned thoughtfully and said, "Actually, I think you do."  She got up and went over to the caller ID box beside the kitchen phone.  The display read, CALLER: UNKNOWN.  LOCATION: PITSBRG, PA.  

"Move over," Steven ordered, and he picked up the receiver and began to dial the number on the screen.

By the time Liv and Keith had worked out the cause for their daughter's distress, Emily had gone from devastated to outraged and had packed a bag and called the Clearfield County airport to schedule a flight to LA in her mother's private plane.  She was determined to find out why another woman was answering the phone in her own house at six in the morning when the only person who had any business waking up there was Steven.

"Emily, why don't you just call him first?  There's no sense in taking off in a red hot rage when you don't really know the whole story."

"There will be time enough to get the whole story once I'm there, Mama," Emily insisted.  "And it better be a damned good one, too, or I'm going to kick his sorry tail all the way from Brentwood back to Malibu _before _I have him and his little hussy arrested for trespassing.  He _never_ asked my permission to stay in that house."

"But you gave him a key, Em."

"I DON"T CARE!  Especially now that he has someone there to keep him company and God only knows what else."

"Emmy, sweetie, will you just listen to reason?"

"NO!  Mama, I have to go.  I have to confront him face to face."

"All right then," Liv said in the sternest voice she could manage, "you go ahead and fly to LA, but you take your father with you."

"What!" Keith and Emily chorused.

"Keith, you're going," Liv snapped in the tone of someone used to giving orders when the situation demanded.  "Em, if you're right about Steven, he's going to want a piece of that boy's hide, too, and if you're wrong, well, he'll keep you from doing something you might regret."

"Mama, he doesn't need to go.  I'll be all right on my own."

"He goes, Em, or I call and cancel the plane," Olivia insisted.  "It is mine after all."

"I'll drive to Pittsburgh and get a commercial flight," Emily threatened.

"That's two hours in the car, two to three more in the airport, and another hour on the runway, followed by a couple of hours going through security at LAX," Liv countered calmly.  "I don't think you want an eight hour delay, do you?"

There was a long, pregnant pause in which the two highly agitated women stared each other down, Emily with eyes narrowed and her hands on her hips, Liv with her arms folded, wearing the impenetrable gaze that had made her a legendary poker player among her friends.  Finally, without sparing so much as a glance in Keith's direction, Emily said, "Get in the jeep, Dad."

"But Em, I need to pack a bag."

"I'll buy you some clothes when we get there.  Get in the jeep, Dad."

Shrugging and muttering and knowing this was one of those times when nothing he could say would make any difference, Keith did exactly as he was told.  When her husband was out of the room, Olivia softened her expression, and said compassionately, "I hope you're wrong about him, Emmy."

Emily let a little of her furious façade slip then, and said, "So do I, Mama, because I don't know what I'll do if I'm right."

"After you kick his sorry tail all the way from Brentwood back to Malibu, you mean."  Olivia allowed herself an impish smile then hoping it was the right thing to say.

Apparently it was, because Emily smiled back and even gave a small slightly embarrassed laugh.  "A bit melodramatic, wasn't I?"

Liv nodded, "Just a tad."

"I really do need to go see him, Mama."

"I know, sweetie," Liv said as she reached out and straightened her daughter's collar and brushed her wild red curls away from her face.  "I'm sending your father just in case you are right.  I don't want you to have to face that alone, and . . . I know having me along would just drive you up the wall."

"I'm sorry, Mama," Emily said, and she looked as if she was about to cry again.

"Shh," Liv hushed her and wrapped her in a hug.  "It's a mother's job to fret and worry and play the martyr, and I take my job very seriously.  You just go find that young man of yours and see what he's been up to."  Pulling back from the hug, she added, "and if you or you father do assault him, don't call me to post bail."

Olivia stood in the driveway and waved to her daughter and husband until the ancient pink jeep rattled out of sight and earshot.  Then she went back into the guesthouse and cut the power to everything but the refrigerator.  As she walked back to the main house, Olivia decided she needed to talk to her accountant today.  She and Keith had been talking about retiring to LA to be closer to Em.  When they did, the house and grounds would be turned into an assisted living facility for victims of the BioGen virus.  Liv had the sneaking suspicion that Em wouldn't be coming back from this trip, so now was the time to put their plans in motion.

Lauren watched with growing distress as Steven dialed the phone repeatedly.  Snatches of her half-sleeping conversation with Em were coming back to her, and she didn't feel very good about what she had said.  She hadn't meant to create problems, but she just wasn't fully coherent when she'd answered the phone.

"It just rings and rings and rings," he said.  "No answering machine, nothing."

"Uh, she might not want to talk to you after all," Lauren said.

Steven looked up sharply.  "Why not?"

"Well . . . " Lauren began reluctantly, "I fell back asleep after you woke me, and I sort of mentioned that we had just woken up when I answered the phone."

Steven stared at her confused for a moment.  "So?"

Lauren sighed dramatically.  "Men are so dense.  Steven, I didn't tell her that I spent the night on the couch."

"So?"

She just stared at him until he got it.

"Ohhh."  Then he really got it.  "Oh, God, Lauren!  You didn't!  What am I supposed to do now?"

Making the kind of snap decision that made her ideally suited for a job in the fast paced restaurant business, she said, "You pack a bag and go explain in person."

"What!  Lauren, I have patients.  I can't just leave."

"Yes, you can.  Somebody will cover for you," she insisted, guiding him gently out of his seat and to the bedroom so he could pack a bag.  "Now, who should I call?"

As he began mechanically putting things in his suitcase, Steven said, "Try CJ first, and then Alicia, she has admitting privileges now.  Then Alex, I guess, and then your dad."

As Lauren headed off to do his bidding, Steven finished dressing and packing.  When he returned to the kitchen, Lauren said, "Ok, you're booked on the eight-fifteen direct to Pittsburgh, so you'll need to hurry."  She stuck a sheet of paper in his pocket and said, "There will be a car waiting for you at the Budget rental office, and the directions to Liv's house will be programmed into the GPS computer."

"Lauren, thank you," he said as he headed for the door.  "I'll pay you back when I come home."

"Puh-leeze," she said.  "I used Daddy's credit card.  You owe him, not me."

"I might have known," Steven grinned as he climbed into the car.  Then he suddenly went bug-eyed.  "My patients.  Who's covering my patients?"

"Daddy and Alex are splitting your shift, and I'll keep an eye on the house for you.  Now go!"

Steven reached out with one long arm and pulled Lauren to him for a quick kiss on the cheek and a hug.  "Lauren, you're a lifesaver.  Thank you."  Then he shut the door and drove off.

Steve waited nervously as Tanis and Cheryl read his proposal.  He was only back at headquarters for this brief meeting, and then he had to run by Bob's and then back home to help Maribeth decorate for Halloween.  After lunch, they were going to the hospital for trick-or-treating with the pediatric patients.  Emily had called him last night, with the good news that she was officially 'better.'  They had talked for a while, and then she had finally confided in him that she really didn't know what to do with herself now.  She was adamant that she would not undergo any experimental treatments or procedures to replace her missing kidney so that she could be a cop again, but she couldn't think of anything else she would want to do with her life.  She was wondering if there might still be a place in the LAPD for her anyway.

He'd promised her he would see what he could do, but didn't mention that he already had something in mind.  Without ever telling anybody, shortly after he retired, Steve had spent several days working out this proposal, just on the chance that Emily might want to come back once she had recovered.  He owed her his life, and he was hoping that this gesture would be a small start on paying back that debt.

"So, do you think the police commissioners will go for it?" he asked hopefully.

"I don't know, Steve," Tanis said.  "To rehire her in a brand new position like this, it could raise a lot of questions.  Especially if she isn't well."

"Tanis, she's fine," Steve assured his former supervisor.  "She just doesn't meet all the requirements for going out on the streets, and you wouldn't be rehiring her because she hasn't actually quit the force yet.  She's still on medical leave.  It would be an internal transfer."

"To a new position we have created just for her?" Cheryl said reluctantly.  "It smacks of nepotism."

"Cheryl, she's just thirty-one years old" Steve said earnestly.  "She risked her life to save mine.  I don't care if people think I'm doing her special favors.  Whatever we can do for her, she's earned it.  Besides, even if you interviewed other applicants for this position, no one would be as well qualified as Emily."

"I agree, Steve," Cheryl answered, "but only because it was designed with her in mind.  You know how hard we have worked since the mob scandals to clean up our image and regain the public's trust.  Now, we have to avoid even the appearance of impropriety."

"What the hell is so improper about using the resources available to you!" Steve shouted in frustration.  

"If you're going to yell, you can leave now," Tanis said, pointing to the door.

Steve took several deep breaths to calm himself, and then said somewhat more quietly, "I'm sorry for yelling, but there has to be a way we can work this out.  She has skills and knowledge that the LAPD could really use, and I am certain she would like to remain with the department if she could."

"I know that, Steve," Tanis said soothingly, "and I'm really sorry, but even if she has recovered as well as you say, she doesn't meet the physical requirements to be a cop any more.  The commissioners would never approve because our insurers would never cover her.  Cheryl, can you back me up on this?"

When they looked to Cheryl, both of them were surprised to see her grinning slyly.  "What if she weren't a cop?

Steve ran his hands through his hair and sighed in frustration.  "Hello?  Cheryl?" he called somewhat sarcastically as he waved a hand in front of her face.  "The whole reason I'm here is to try to find a way to help her stay with the department, remember?"

"Yeah, I know, but maybe . . . "

"Maybe what, Cheryl?" Tanis asked.

Turning to Steve, she asked, "How would Emily feel if she weren't a cop, but she was able to stay with the department in another capacity?"

"She is not cut out to be a secretary, Cheryl."

"I know that, but what if she were a consultant working with cops undercover and on electronic surveillance and investigation?  She would still have an office and be working cases, but, no badge, no gun, and not on the street.  Kind of like what your dad used to do."

Steve grinned.  "He still does.  You should talk to Dion sometime."

Tanis had to smile, too.  "You know, I'm not surprised," she told Steve then said, "Cheryl, your idea just might work.  Why don't you and Steve get started on a proposal I can present to the commissioners?  I'll look at my budget and see if I can find the money for a salary.  Just remember, she will have to be privately insured."

Steve checked his watch.  "Uhh, actually, ladies, I have plans with my wife today, at least until dinner time.  I can probably work on it this week, have it back by say Monday, if you like.  It's not like she's going to just show up on my doorstep unannounced.  If it can wait a week or so, I can save Cheryl the trouble."

Cheryl and Tanis looked at each other and nodded, and so it was decided that if the police commissioners accepted the proposal, Emily would have a job waiting for her when she returned to LA.

"You know, Daddy, you could have just taken the jeep and left once we got to the airport," Emily said somewhere over the Midwest.  "You didn't have to fly to LA with me."

"Where would I go, kiddo?  Your mom would have my hide if I didn't go with you."

Emily frowned, nodded, and conceded, "You do have a point."

"Yeah, and besides, I mean to take that young man out to the woodshed if you're right about what he's done."

It was just past eight when Lauren came flying into BBQ Bob's to help attend to the breakfast crowd.  Steve had stopped by on his way home from his early morning meeting with Tanis and Cheryl, and, after making a fresh batch of the secret sauce, had called his wife to tell her he was sticking around until his goddaughter showed up to manage the place.  Making a great show of checking his watch as she scurried into the kitchen, he inquired loudly, "Running a little late, are we?"

Unperturbed by her godfather's posturing as an angry employer, Lauren put her apron on and crossed the kitchen to give Steve a kiss on the cheek.  "You wouldn't believe the morning I've had, Uncle Steve," she said breezily.  "It started about eleven o'clock last night, and it's all your son's fault."

Lauren smiled slyly as Steve raised one inquisitive eyebrow.  Her diversion tactic was a success.  As she launched into a detailed, but decidedly vague description of Steven's escapades the previous night and the rather interesting morning she'd spent with him, she knew she wouldn't be hearing anything more about arriving over an hour late for her shift at the restaurant. 

"Don't you think you ought to knock?" Keith asked.  

"It's my house, Dad," Emily said dourly as she put the key in the lock.

"I know that, Em, but you're not expected."

"He shouldn't be doing anything in my house that he wouldn't want me to just walk in on."

Em and Keith had arrived in LA at about noon local time, which was around three in the afternoon by their biological clocks.  There had not been time to stock the plane's galley, and Keith was famished when the plane touched down, but he knew there was no way he would be able to divert his hard-headed daughter from her chosen mission.  So, after they had driven the jeep out of the cargo hold, he just went along for the ride to Brentwood, hoping that the sooner Emily satisfied herself about Steven's activities, the sooner he would get some lunch.  

"Honey, I'm home," Emily called out sarcastically as she entered the house.  When there was no answer, she called, "Steven?"

"Looks like nobody's here," Keith said, trying to hustle Emily back out the door.  "What do you say we go get some lunch and come back after he gets home from work?"

Emily shook loose from his grasp on her arm.  "No way, Daddy.  I want to investigate first, see who this chickie is who has been staying in my house.  Why don't you start in the guestroom while I take the master bedroom?"

Steve and Maribeth were just finishing up their lunch when Lauren approached them wearing the sad-eyed puppy look that she had perfected from a lifetime of watching her daddy.  Maribeth winked at Steve, knowing one pout from Lauren could turn him to mush said, "I'll handle this."  Steve smiled and nodded, for he knew as well as his wife just how tightly the diminutive young woman had him wrapped around her finger.

As Lauren arrived at their table, she asked, "Uncle Steve, Aunty M., how was your lunch?"

Maribeth wiped the corners of her mouth daintily and replied, "Delicious as always, dear, thank you for asking.  What do you want?"

Taken aback, Lauren gasped, "Aunty M!  What makes you think I want something?"

In a tone that was somehow simultaneously stern and amused, Maribeth said, "Lauren Travis, I have known you since the day you were born, and I love you like my own, but I can read you like a book.  If you need something, just ask us, dear.  Don't try to manipulate us."

"Yes, Ma'am," Lauren said somewhat dejectedly, and stuck out her lower lip.  When Steve gave her a sympathetic look, Maribeth kicked him under the table.  They had plans to take the kids in the children's ward trick-or-treating this afternoon, and she had no intention of being roped in to helping at the restaurant instead.

"Lauren, what do you need?" Maribeth coaxed.

After a deep breath and a sigh, the young woman began rambling as if she could gain their assistance through sheer verbiage.  "Well, after Emily called and I booked Steven on a flight to Pittsburgh, he was worried about her house, so, I promised him I'd look after it; but I don't really understand the security system, so all I could do was lock the doors when I left, and I'm afraid I might set it off when I go back tonight if it automatically arms itself, and I was hoping Uncle Steve could come take a look at it for me and show me how it works so I don't have the police coming out every time I turn the doorknob."

Maribeth wrinkled her nose in confusion and said, "You lost me at Pittsburgh."

"It's in Western Pennsylvania," Lauren supplied with a grin.  "Take the I-80 west until you hit the Pacific Ocean, turn left, and you'll get to your house in no time."

Steve laughed, and Maribeth kicked him again.  "Not funny," she told the young woman. 

"I'm sorry Aunty M.  It was just a joke," Lauren said sadly.

While Steve's heart turned to goo at the thought of his goddaughter being sad, Maribeth stood firm.  "I know that, Lauren," she said, "but if you really want our help, I suggest you try explaining again."

Steve, who had heard the whole saga terminating in Steven's trip to Pennsylvania that morning while he made the sauce, rubbed his bruised shin with one hand and waved his goddaughter away with the other.  "Go back to work, Lauren," he said cheerfully.  "I'll explain, and yes, your shift ends at four, so we'll come by around then and go out to Brentwood with you."

Lauren grinned brightly and moved off to greet some customers.  When she was gone, Maribeth glowered at her husband and said, "She plays you like a cheap violin."

Steve shrugged the criticism off carelessly and said, "I know, but she's a good kid, and she isn't selfish.  I don't mind.  Now, do you want to know what our son is up to or not?"

"Well, I didn't find anything in the guest room," Keith said entering the kitchen to speak to Em.  After checking out the master bedroom, she had gone to investigate elsewhere in the house.

"Mmm.  I didn't find anything in the main bedroom, either, but look at this."  She indicated the sink.

"I see dirty dishes," Keith said, becoming increasingly puzzled by his daughter's suspicions.  There could be a number of reasons why a woman had answered the phone while Steven was in the shower.  He couldn't think of any very good ones right now, but reason dictated that there should be several.

"I see breakfast for two," she said, "one coffee black, one light and sweet." 

 Keith had to agree.  He could still see the undissolved crystals in the bottom of one cup.  "Maybe he had someone over for breakfast, that doesn't mean he's been unfaithful, Em," he told her.

"I know, but I checked the bathroom, too."  Her features clouded, and Keith knew she wasn't pleased.

"You found something."

"No make up, no perfume, not even an extra toothbrush."

"Then why so grim?"

Her eyes filled with tears.  "Oh, Daddy, there was long, blond hair in his brush.  What if it was a one-night stand?  What if I waited too long to come home?"  Standing in the middle of the room, she began to sob, and all Keith could do was take her in his arms and hold her.

"Mrs. Stevens," Ben Goldstein said as they wandered through the garden beside the house, "are you sure you really want to do this?  I know it's a good tax write-off and all, but it's also your home."

Olivia sighed.  Ben had been her accountant ever since his father, Meyer, had passed away, and while he was quite good with ledgers, portfolios, and tax-forms, he had never understood the tremendous spiritual profit gained by giving something you have to people who need it more than you.

"My home is near my daughter, Ben, and she doesn't live here any more."

"You could sell this place and use the cash to buy a new home in California."

She smiled indulgently and paused to pick a few of the hardy, late-blooming marigolds.  "I could buy a new home in California out of petty cash, Ben, and I probably will.  This home was given to me, I will not profit by it.  The people of this community need a hospice where victims of the BioGen virus can come to be cared for while their caregivers get a much-needed break, or to be cared for long-term, or to die in a place where professionals can help manage their pain in the final days.

"This house is almost ready made for that," Olivia explained and started pointing at the different features of the house with her bouquet of bright orange flowers.  "The master bedroom will go to a resident physician and his or her spouse.  The guesthouse is a nice place for extended family to stay, relatives who live too far to commute for a visit.  The upstairs apartments will be an assisted living facility for ambulatory patients, and the rooms on the upstairs hall will be for patients in more serious condition.  There's a gym and a pool, for physical therapy, and the dining, living, and recreation rooms will be nice meeting places for support groups to help families of victims learn to cope.  We just need to install an elevator and proper electricity for a medical facility."

"You've thought this out very carefully, haven't you?" Ben asked and fell into step beside Olivia as she started walking again.

"Of course I have.  I think it will work beautifully."

"And I'll bet you'd like the staff to be hired from the pool of people you have helped attend college, medical, and nursing schools."

"Naturally.  At least as much as possible."

"What does your husband think about this, Mrs. Stevens?"

Olivia stopped in mid-stride and turned to face the young man, giving him a look that made him wish he hadn't asked.  "By now, Ben, you should know that I am going to do what I want to do, regardless of what he thinks."

"Yes, Ma'am, I know that," Ben tried to say diplomatically, "but his life has been in this house for the past thirty years."

"And there is just one name on the deed to it.  Mine."

"I know that, too, Mrs. Stevens, but . . ."

Olivia smiled, and said, "But just for your information, Keith and I have been talking about this for a while, and he thinks it's a good idea, too, and before you ask, Emily's life is in California now."

Ben heaved a sigh of relief, delighted that he wouldn't have to find a way to get her to put it off until she talked it over with her husband.  "You know, you might have told me that ten minutes ago!"

"I know, but I wanted to tease you.  Keith and I will remove our personal effects by Thanksgiving.  Do you think you could have the place up and running by New Years?"

"I'll do my best," Ben promised, "but if you think you could live with the contractors for the month before you move out, it might be nice to get it started by December.  The holidays are a stressful time for a lot of people and it might make it easier to celebrate if folks could have their loved ones stay here for a few days while they make preparations.  I gathered you want this to be a short-term care facility, not a nursing home."

"Exactly," Olivia said.  "The kind of place where a young couple caring for an ill grandfather can bring him and know he's getting kind, loving care while they take their first vacation in three years."

"Ok, I'll get to work on it this afternoon," Ben said.  "I have a couple of contacts at similar facilities who can help me figure out what we need in the line of staffing and equipment.  I'll call the lawyers to get to work on licensing and insurance, and I'll start looking into locating interested staffers.  Is it supposed to be exclusively for BioGen victims?"

"No, but they should be given preference."

"All right.  I'll remember that for the legal paperwork."

"Very good, and Ben . . . "

"I know, I know.  It's not for profit.  I'll set up a foundation and let you know how much money it needs.  You think up a name for it."

Olivia laughed, and said, "I'll do that, Ben, and thank you.  You have a good day."

"You, too, ma'am, and thank you."  Ben headed down the garden path toward his car, but before he had gone very far, he stopped and turned.  "I wish you would let me turn a profit, Mrs. Stevens, because that is what I was trained to do, but I have to tell you, I think this is a very good thing you are doing."

Olivia chuckled.  The young man might have learned something from her after all.  "Thank you, Ben.  I'm glad to hear you say that."

Somewhere in the air over Kansas or Nebraska, _or some damned place_, Steven sighed.  He'd been on the plane for almost three hours, flying for over two, and he had finally found the nerve to face what he had done last night.  By the time he had realized what was happening, he'd been too drunk to drive, too embarrassed to face his friends, and much too scared to face his parents.  Somehow, he'd ended up pouring himself in a cab and directing the driver to BBQ Bob's.  When he got there, he'd realized that his dad might be inside, and he sent the cabbie in to ask for Lauren.  He was just lucky that she was there and his dad was not.

After paying the cabbie from the till and writing an IOU, she'd had a couple of waiters help him stagger to the office where they had dumped him on the couch.  At first, Lauren had been too busy with the restaurant to come sit with him, and he had been alone with his misery.  By the time she had a break and could come back and see him, he was desolate.

_"Steven?  Steven what's the matter with you?  How much did you have to drink?"_

_"Don' know.  Toommmmuch."_

_"Why?  What happened?  What have you been doing?"_

_"PleasssseLarn, ssslow downnnnn!  Too many quessshunns, cannnn't think."_

_Lauren had stopped talking for a few minutes and just rubbed Stephen's back.  At first, she had been shocked at his condition when she had gone out to the cab to see him.  Then, she was annoyed that he would come disturb her at the restaurant in his condition, knowing how busy she was likely to be.  By the time she got back to the office, she had been downright angry at him for coming in half blind with liquor when he knew full well that Bob's was a family restaurant and there were always likely to be any number of small children there.  Now that she saw how distraught he was, she could only feel sorry for him._

_"Ok," she finally said, "first things first.  Have you been hurt?"_

_"No, no, jusss . . . Jusssskunked sall."_

_"I can see that," she wrinkled her nose and, because she didn't want to leave him alone even for a moment, picked up the phone and called out the kitchen for a pot of coffee.  "Have you gotten in trouble, hurt anyone, wrecked your car, anything like that?"_

_"No . . . snuthin' like that."_

_Breathing a sigh of relief, Lauren asked, "Then can you tell me what has happened that has you so upset?"_

_With a trembling hand, Steven pushed the hair out of his eyes.  There was a knock at the door, and Lauren got up and opened it.  When she closed it, she was balancing a tray holding a pot full of black coffee, two cups, sugar, and cream.  She poured a cup of it black for Steven, and then fixed her own with cream and sugar._

_"Now, what's the matter, Steven?"_

_He was silent for several moments as he collected his thoughts and drank about half his coffee, then, slowly, his words somewhat slurred by alcohol, he began to tell his story._

At five o'clock local time, Keith and Emily were fixing themselves a light dinner as they waited for Steven to come home.  Em had carefully set the breakfast dishes out of the way so she would 'still have the evidence' when she confronted him 'about his philandering ways'.  Keith just shook his head, knowing it would take more than an unusual phone call to rattle his normally very self-possessed daughter, and wondering what had really set her off.  On the one hand, he thought he ought to talk to her about her odd behavior, but on the other hand, he decided to wait and see how she handled herself when she saw Steven before he did anything.

As they were slicing tomatoes for the salad, they heard the distinctive click and creak of the front door opening.  Before Keith could say a word, Emily had left the kitchen.  He arrived in the living room just in time to see the fireworks start.

"Em?" Lauren said in shock.  "What are you doing here?"

"It's my house," Emily replied icily.  "What are you doing here?  More to the point, what were you doing here when I called at six o'clock in the morning?"

"Steven needed me, so I spent the night."

"Oh, _did_ you?" Emily asked sarcastically, not caring that Steve and Maribeth were there.  Lauren shrank back, suddenly realizing this was much more than a casual, 'Hi!  How are you?  Nice to see you,' conversation.

Keith had been watching for the signs, and when he saw the left fist clenching and unclenching and the muscle in the jaw twitching, he knew disaster was imminent.  So, before Em could say another word, he asked in a commanding tone, "Emily, could I have a word with you in the garden?"

Ignoring her father, Emily opened her mouth to make another sharp comment to Lauren, but again, before she could speak, her father intervened.  "Emily Morgan Stephanie Theodora Stevens, I said out in the garden _now_!" he roared.

Emily closed her mouth without a sound, and stood for several moments, embarrassed by having been yelled at by her father, furious with Steven and Lauren, frustrated that she was being prevented from dealing with the problem, and confused that her father wasn't taking her side.  Finally, she lowered her gaze, turned, and walked out of the room.

"Guys, I'm sorry," Keith said to Lauren, Steve, and Maribeth when he heard the patio door slide open and then shut again.  "Lauren, she was very upset when she called this morning and had a woman tell her Steven was still in the shower."

"I can imagine," Lauren said.

"I don't think you can," Keith replied.  "There's more going on, but I'm not sure what.  I can understand if you don't want to stick around, but I would consider it a personal favor if you could wait until I've spoken with her so we can get to the bottom of things.  We were making dinner, and there should be enough for everyone if you want to finish preparing it while I'm with Em."

After a moment of silence, Steve said, "I'll call Dad and let him know not to wait on us."

Maribeth nodded and added, "Lauren and I will finish cooking.  Steve, after you've called Dad, set the table."

Steve nodded, and Keith smiled gratefully.  "Thanks, guys.  Thank you very much."

When he went out into the garden to speak with his child, Keith decided to pull no punches.  "Em, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"You heard her, Daddy!" Emily shouted.  "She slept with him!"

"She didn't say that, Em, and don't you raise your voice to me."

Emily pressed her lips together in a thin, angry line.  She was tired of being treated like an unruly child, but she wasn't sure what her father would do if she lashed out again.  To her surprise, he moved closer and wrapped her in a hug.

"Come on, Em," he said soothingly as he stepped slightly away, took her by the hand and led her to the weeping cherry where the low-hanging branches would given them the privacy they needed to really talk.  

"Don't you think your old dad can tell when something's got you down?" he asked, and when Emily tried to protest that she was just fine, he cut her off to explain the reasoning behind his question.  

"Last night when we were playing HORSE, you wanted to tell me something," he said as he guided her to the little bench that sat beneath the tree.  "You tried three or four times, but you just couldn't make it come out.  Then, after one weird little phone call, you have a fit, fly all the way out here, and search the house looking for 'evidence'.  That's not you.  You're not that insecure.  Something happened to make you edgy, and when you called and Lauren answered, it drove you off the deep end.  So, what's up?"

Emily stared at the grass at her feet for a while.  It was very fine from lack of light, being shaded as it was by the weeping cherry, but it was thick and soft and long.  She could part it with her toes, and if she had wanted, she could have bent over and braided it, as if the earth were a young girl and she were its mother, doing its hair.  She smiled, almost remembering when her own mother had struggled with her to hold still 'for just five minutes so your braids will look nice.'  The earth had much more patience than a young girl, and far more sense than a young woman who had been made old before her time by her own hell-raising wildness.

"You'll think I'm silly," she finally told her father.

"Perhaps I will," Keith agreed, "but whatever's bothering you, I will help you work it out, and I will try very hard not to laugh."  

Emily heard the gentle teasing in his tone, and she smiled crookedly at him.  "Ian's getting married," she said simply.

"I know that," Keith replied.  "I've met his fiancée.  She's a nice girl."

"I didn't know until he and I had dinner the other night.  I didn't even know he had been seeing anyone."  Emily sat picking lint off her jeans for the longest time without saying anything.  It seemed the world could crumble to dust around them, and her father would still be waiting for her to speak her fears.  Finally, she took a deep breath and confessed, "For some reason, I never pictured him with anyone else.  I never consciously pictured him pining away for me.  I just figured there would always be a me-shaped hole there beside him.  I thought he would wait for me to come back."

"But now you know he didn't," Keith said.

"Yeah, and that shook my view of the world a little," Em reluctantly admitted.  "Then the next day was my last visit to Slava.  She released me, just like that, out of her care.  'You can drop in at your local hospital for a stress test in six months, but our business here is concluded.'  She didn't actually say that, but that's what it felt like."

Again, they lapsed into silence.  There was a crack in the bench, and it had some sort of deep green algae or fungi growing in it.  _Like a scar, or an incision._  Emily traced over the imperfection again and again with her finger, and her father waited._  The man has the patience of Job, though I suppose, between Mama and me, it's been sorely tested._

"Then this morning," a pause.  _I realized how ugly I was, inside with sadness and willfulness, and outside, too.  _A swallow.  "I wondered if Steven was still waiting for me, or if I had made the same mistake again."

"And when you called, and a woman answered, that's all she wrote, huh?"

Emily smiled and nodded.  "I guess I did overreact a little."

"Em, screaming insults down the phone line before you got the whole story would have been a little.  You went off the deep end."

"I suppose I did."

"When your mother and I split up, after I had lost my legs," Keith never mentioned the fact that Ian's late Uncle Ted had been the cause for it, "I drove her away.  When she left, I told her she didn't ever have to come home again on my account.  That if I ever wanted to see her again, I would come for her."

As he spoke, Keith studied his daughter carefully.  He'd never told his daughter this story, and he could tell from the surprised expression on her face that her mother had never mentioned it either.  _Just like Olivia to overlook something that would cast me in an unfavorable light to my daughter.  I wish I had been so generous._

"Well, I never came for her," he said, "but one day she came home to me."

"And she had the Chief with her," Emily said.  She knew this part of the story.

"I hated him on sight," Keith confessed.  "He was taller than I had been before I lost my legs, he had a great tan, perfect teeth, and all of his hair.  And worst of all, he had your mother.  I had always thought, when she came back, she would be alone."

For a long time, they both sat quietly, neither of them needing to say more.  Finally, Emily stood up and said, "I guess I should start with an apology, huh?"

"I think so," Keith agreed, "and then listen, instead of looking for trouble."

Together, they headed into the house, where Emily began by apologizing to Lauren, Maribeth, and the Chief for the chilly reception they had initially received.

"Now, why don't you tell me what happened, from the beginning," Olivia suggested gently as she and Steven settled down to coffee and cherry pie in the living room.  The poor young man had arrived out of the blue about an hour ago, tired, frustrated, hungry, and when he found out Emily had headed for LA to confront him about his supposed infidelity, distraught.  Olivia had showed him to a bathroom to freshen up, fixed him dinner, and made him feel at home.  Only now that he was finally shedding the stress of a rather difficult day, would she let him get into the hairy business of trying to explain his early morning female visitor.

Steven took a deep breath, and for the second time in as many days explained how he became roaring drunk and betrayed Emily.

"There is a doctor at the hospital named Vanessa.  She's very pretty and seems very nice, and though I didn't realize it at the time, she'd been paying special attention to me lately.  Last night she asked me, 'A few of us are going out for drinks.  Would you like to come along?'

"Olivia, I swear she said 'a few of us.'  I wouldn't have gone if I had known it was just her and a friend.  It's not that I didn't think she was a nice person.  I just don't find her all that interesting.  I was missing Emily, and I was bored, and I thought it would be nice to get out for an evening with a group of my colleagues, so I went along."

Olivia had been listening all this time without interrupting, just nodding from time to time to indicate that she was following along.  Now she broke in gently to say, "A word of advice, Steven, when you tell Emily about this, do not mention how pretty and nice Vanessa is."

Steven blushed slightly, and said, "No, ma'am.  I'll remember."  He took a bite of his cherry pie and a swallow of coffee, and continued.  "'A few of us' turned out to be Vanessa, Dr. Jackie Holmes, whom I am sure would not have come if her husband's reserve unit was not out on maneuvers for two weeks, and me.

"Well, I probably shouldn't have . . . "  At Liv's raised eyebrow, he amended, "I _definitely _shouldn't have done it, but I started with a double scotch, neat, and waited for the rest of the group to show up, because I really was still expecting more people. Vanessa was talking about how terrible she thought the whole business with Em and Moretti was, how much the reporters and the 'constant parade of police' had disrupted the hospital routine, and how it was probably for the best that Emily had gone home, because, as she understood it, 'her parents are retired and can look after her.'

"I am sure now, that Vanessa was trying to make me glad that she was gone, but she kept talking, and I kept drinking, and I just missed Em more and more.  Then Jackie left to get her kids from the sitter, and it was just Vanessa and me.  I had probably had four doubles by then, and I started to get really depressed.  I guess I may have started crying, because the next thing I knew, Vanessa was sitting awfully close and wiping my tears with a napkin.  In a twisted way, that made me angry."

Steven had grown gradually more upset as he told the story, and again, the tears had come without his even realizing it.  Olivia silently handed him a tissue, and waited for him to continue.  He ate some more of his pie, and drank some more coffee, and when, after several minutes, he had not started talking again, Olivia finally asked, "Why were you angry?"

"I was miserable," he said.  "I was in a room full of people, and I was full of liquor, and I was still so terribly lonely.  All I needed to feel better was Emily, and she didn't even give me her phone number when she left."

Steven stopped talking again, and took several deep breaths, preparing himself for the most difficult part of the story.  Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back and opened them again, staring at the ceiling so he would not have to face Olivia.

"Vanessa kissed me," he said.  "And I kissed her back, and it felt . . . nice.  Then she kissed me again, and . . . I knew I didn't want to spend the night alone.  The third time she kissed me, I knew it was wrong.  I didn't want to screw up what I had with Em for a one-night stand with . . . with a scheming . . . I don't even know what to call her!  But I know what she was trying to do, and I wasn't going to let it happen."

He faced Liv again.  "I paid my tab and got the bouncer to call a cab for me.  I still didn't want to spend the night alone, so I went to BBQ Bob's to find Lauren . . . 

". . . and so I brought him home," Lauren concluded.  They had gone into the guest bedroom to talk, because Lauren knew Steven was embarrassed by his 'drunken aberration' as she called it, and wouldn't want anybody to hear about it unless they needed to know.  

"He was so upset, Em, and ashamed, and lonely," Lauren said, the tears at the corner of her eyes showing how distraught she still was on Steven's behalf.  

"I didn't think he was in any danger of harming himself, aside from a few bumps and bruises from being stumbling drunk, but when he pleaded with me to stay the night, I agreed.  I sat on the edge of the bed and talked to him until he fell asleep."  The warmth in her voice showed how much she cared for him, but it was also clearly the affection one felt for a dear friend, and nothing more.

"Then I made up a bed for myself on the couch.  I wasn't sure how much he'd remember when he woke, and if he came out into the living room and saw me there, if he was worried about what he'd done, he could ask me.  It really was perfectly innocent," Lauren promised.  "He's like a brother . . . to me . . . Em . . . Oh, jeeze, I'm sorry."  Just like her father, Lauren tailed off and cringed slightly when she realized she had said the wrong thing.  _Great job, Lauren, after all the rumors how could you even say, 'he's like a brother'._

Emily smiled, seeing the pure panic in the younger woman's eyes.  "It's ok, Lauren.  I understand what you mean, and I believe you."

"It sounds like Lauren is a good friend," Olivia said as Steven finished his story, his pie, and his coffee all within a minute of each other.

He nodded.  "She really is, Liv, and she is just a friend."  There was a long silence, and then he asked, "So is Em very mad at me?"

"Mad enough to chew nails and spit tacks," Olivia said with an incongruously bright smile, "but don't worry about that.  Her father knows how to handle her.  Now, it's getting late, at least for me, though I suppose it's only about eight o'clock to you."

Steve checked his watch and said, "Nine, actually."

Olivia smiled.  "Ok, either way, it's midnight here, and I am tired.  My plane will be home in the morning, and after breakfast, we can get you back to LA and Emily."

Steven nodded.  "Yes, ma'am, and thank you for listening."

"Any time, Steven, any time at all.  Stay up and watch television if you like," she offered, "or get on the computer in the library.  Help yourself to anything in the kitchen.  Whatever you want.  There's only a shower in the bathroom attached to your room, but if you'd rather a bath, there's one at the end of the hall."

Steven nodded.  "Ok, Liv, and thanks."

Steven took a shower and relaxed in front of the television for a while.  Then he went out into the kitchen and fixed himself some hot cocoa.  Emily had grown up in this house, he realized, and she had probably been an absolute terror.  Curious about something she had once told him, he went into the pantry, and began to fiddle about with the shelves, and soon they swung smoothly open.  Sure enough, there was a secret passageway.

He did not follow it.  Somehow, it was enough just to know it was there, a secret escape route almost two hundred years old.  It had been used as a stop on the Underground Railroad to hide runaway slaves who had found sanctuary in the home of a wealthy white abolitionist.  Many years later it became a secret playground for a lonely little girl who had know far too much of the world to ever share it with her peers.  Emily had described it to him in great detail, and he could picture her, creeping quietly through the damp tunnels to climb out of the wall of the well in the garden and up to the sunlight, or running up to the barn to emerge surrounded by the golden walls of the full-to-bursting hayloft.  She doubted her parents had ever known it was there.

It was only nine thirty in the evening in LA, but Emily lay comfortably ensconced in her bed, which still held Steven's scent in the pillows and comforter.  Realizing that with the time difference, she and her father felt it was somewhat later, the Sloans and Lauren Travis had left around eight o'clock.  The walls were not thin, but if she listened carefully, she could hear the quiet sounds of her father, settling in for the night.  She smiled and snuggled deeper, breathing her lungs full of her lover's smell, knowing that when she saw him again, all would be right with her world.

When the phone rang, it did not disturb her peace.  Somehow, she knew who would be calling.

"Hello."

"Em . . .  I-it's Steven."

"Hi.  Lauren told me what happened.  I can't wait for you to come home.  I miss you."  She heard a huge sigh of relief.  

"I miss you, too," he said, "and I'll be there tomorrow.  I found the secret tunnel."

"Is that cool or what?" she said with enthusiasm.  "Mama doesn't know it, but while I was recovering, some days, when I had just about enough of her trying to check on me from the garden by peering through the curtains of the guesthouse, I would slip into the passageway and walk in the cool quiet, back and forth, back and forth.  It's a good thing nothing ever happened to me down there.  I'd have become just another missing person who was never found."

"I'd have told them to look for you," Steven promised.

"But that would have spoiled our secret."

"I'll give you another one.  Go to my dresser and open the top right-hand drawer."

Emily followed his instructions.  "Ok.  Now what?"

"There's a pair of socks in the back.  Nubby old gray woolen ones, like men wear when they go hunting on a cold day."

She reached in the back, and felt the scratchy cloth.  Pulling it out, she found a lump folded up inside them.

"Steven?  What's this?" she asked though she was sure she knew the answer.

"Well, take it out and see," he said teasingly.

She pulled out a small black velvet box, which she opened.  "Oh, Steven, it's exquisite," she breathed.

"It was my Grandma Kathryn Sloan's.  Dad had one specially made for Mom, so Granddad was able to pass this one on to me," Steven explained, "for you.  Do you really like it?"

"Oh, yes."  The ring was white gold or platinum filigree.  Delicate, flowering vines formed a low wide arch supported by two peacocks.  In the top of the arch was set a round, brilliant cut diamond, neither large nor small, but perfectly sized.  Hearts, accented with rubies adorned the sides.  The whole thing was a tiny sculpture less than an inch wide.

"Does it fit?"

Her hands were trembling so badly she dropped it when she tried to slide it on her finger.  Impatient, Steven had to fill the pause as she got down on the floor to find it.  "Em?  Does it fit?"

"I don't know.  My hands were shaking, and I dropped . . . here it is."  She sat on the floor, her back against the dresser and the phone tucked between her ear and her shoulder, secure in the crook of her neck.  She slid the ring carefully on the third finger of her left hand.  "Oh, Steven," she gasped, "it's beautiful."

"Does it fit?"

"Oh, yes."

"Will you marry me?"

"Oh, yes!"

Emily climbed up on the bed and snuggled under the covers, and they talked about what their future might hold until the sun rose on the East Coast.  As Steven heard his future mother-in-law moving down the hallway in the early hours of the morning, he said, "Remember, it's our secret."

"Then you shouldn't have asked me now."

"I couldn't wait, Em.  I've been without you too long," he confessed.  "Please, put it back now.  I want to ask you properly some day, once I get home.  I want to surprise you and get down on one knee unexpectedly, and ask you.  Please, let me do that." 

With a beleaguered sigh, Emily consented like a spoiled teenager.  "Okayyyyy, but don't make me wait too long, or I might ask you first."

"I promise to make it worth the wait," he said.

They spoke in hushed tones a while longer, and then Steven hung up so he could pretend to be asleep when Olivia came to wake him.


	40. Full Circle

**(Chapter 40.  The beach.  November 22, 2033.)**

Where the dunes leveled off above the high tide line, a very old man with snowy white hair sat in a folding chair, a demolished picnic spread out on the blanket at his feet.  Four couples sat on the edges of the blanket, enjoying one another's company and chattering with the old man.  A tall, very elegant black woman at one corner of the blanket moved a set of aluminum crutches so she could snuggle closer to a tall, dark, handsome man, obviously her husband.  To the old man's left was a small blond guy with a moustache, his whiskers and hair just starting to go gray; he was teasing an attractive brunette.  On the old man's right, was a big guy who looked a lot like the old man.  His hair was getting mostly gray, and he was stretched out full length on the blanket.  His head rested in a blonde woman's lap, and she constantly threaded his hair through her long, slender fingers.  On the corner of the blanket beside them, sat a big man, mostly bald, but with a fringe of close-cropped steel gray hair encircling his head.  Kneeling behind him, massaging his shoulders, was a tiny, spirited redhead.  He was so big, and she was so small, she looked like a child, but anyone with eyes to see could tell they'd been madly in love for years.

A group of young people played in the surf.  A statuesque redhead and her tall, dark-haired escort who strongly resembled the old man strolled along hand in hand from where they'd been hiding behind a dune, having a secret rendezvous.  One knew of the young man's pants was dirty, and the redhead looked a bit shocked.  A handsome black couple, the man with two children tugging him along by his hands and the woman cradling a baby walked towards a group of five playing Frisbee.  The Frisbee players included an athletic young black man and a regal young woman who was obviously his sister.  A slender brunette showed great affection for the man and a redheaded youth was equally enamored of the sister.  When the Frisbee came to her, a blond woman who was considerably younger than the rest, stopped for a moment and spoke to the father of the two young children.  Then the Frisbee players rearranged themselves so the father and his two eldest children could join the game while the mother carried the baby over to sit on a low dune and teach her how to applaud the others' derring-do.

To the casual observer, it was a typical family gathering at the beach, but to one man, it was a dream come true.

The little redhead on the blanket rubbed her husband's balding head playfully, and she said something to the blonde woman that made both their husbands look over at the tall young redhead and her date, and grin.  The two young people came over to them.  The young redhead showed them a ring on her left hand, and her father got up and hugged her.  Then he shook the young man's hand.  The young man gave his dad and granddad each a hug, and then he kissed his mom.  His fiancée gave each of them a hug.  There were lots of hugs and handshakes after that, and much admiring of the ring.  As the sun started to set, the people gathered up their picnic and headed for the house, with the men joking about a bachelor party and the women talking about color schemes and flowers.

Somehow, Steve and Liv found themselves bringing up the rear.  They both stopped out on the deck and watched for a few moments as their friends and family joked and teased their way through the house and into the living room.  Then Steve sighed, and turned to lean on the railing.

Unconsciously copying his actions, Liv did the same.  "It was a nice Thanksgiving, wasn't it?"

He nodded.  "It was a beautiful day for it."  With November having started on a Thursday this year, the holiday had come early, and they had been fortunate to have a golden Indian summer day to celebrate.

A quiet moment passed between them.

"Liv, remember that morning you came out here and caught me . . . dreaming?"

"Today is what you dreamed about."

"Yeah."

There was another quiet moment, then he threw his arm around her shoulders, pulled her close, kissed the top of her head, and said, "It's really good to have you back."  

Olivia slipped an arm around Steve's waist, rested her head against his chest, and drummed her fingers against his ribs to the rhythm of his heartbeat.  "It's good to be back."  

After Keith and Liv had donated their big old house for a hospice care center, they had moved west to be near their daughter, buying a house on the beach about a half-mile south of Steve and Maribeth.  Emily had approved heartily of the place, saying it was, "absolutely perfect, beautiful, close enough to visit every day, and far enough from Brentwood to have to call ahead."  Emily herself was scheduled to start as a consultant for the LAPD on the first Monday of the new year.

Keith and Maribeth stood just inside the house, watching their partners.  Keith sighed, smiled, and said, "They're always going to love each other."

Maribeth looked at him and smiled, then looked back to her husband and the other woman whom he loved.  "Good for them."

By mutual agreement, they both went out onto the deck to join their partners.  Steve and Liv did not separate, but they pulled their spouses close.  Keith and Maribeth did not try to pull them apart, but moved to be near them.  Liv pressed her cheek against Keith's arm, and Steve tucked Maribeth's head under his chin.  The four of them, already old friends, stood watching the setting sun turn the Pacific crimson.  The noises of laughing and teasing inside the house blended and faded into the background.

"Well," Steve said softly, "it seems we have come full circle."

Liv looked over at Maribeth, then to Steve, and finally to Keith.  Then she looked out at the ocean.  "Yes, we have," she agreed, "and that circle is somewhat bigger now."

The sun winked at them as it finally sunk below the horizon.

The End


End file.
